


Sun of My Soul

by Yatzstar



Series: The Cat With the Dragon's Voice [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, F/M, Minor Brynjolf/Dovahkiin, Minor canon divergence, Some fluff but no smut, They're more like flirtatious friends though, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-07 14:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14672859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzstar/pseuds/Yatzstar
Summary: Ma'joraa, the un-mute Dragonborn, finds unexpected friends beneath the streets of Riften. She finds herself drawn to a particular sarcastic Breton, but little does she know, she is walking into an intricately-constructed web of lies. A web that is beginning to come undone...





	1. Tahrovin

The halls of Snow Veil Sanctum were still and quiet. The draugr either slumbered restlessly or had been thrust back into Oblivion on the end of a blade. The tomb watched with interest as two of the living crept through its halls, pausing on either side of a doorway as they readied their weapons. One, a Breton male, signed to his companion.

_She’s just through here. Ready to fight?_

The other, a Khajiit female, gripped the hilt of her steel battle-axe in one hand, and the blue amulet of Talos about her neck with the other, before signing a reply. _Ready as I’ll ever be._

The she-cat darted through the doorway, but before she could even lift her weapon, she felt a sudden stab of pain where her left shoulder met her chest. She looked down, baring her teeth in derision at the arrow embedded in her light armor. The Khajiit ripped it out, tossing it aside and preparing to charge, but her limbs were already starting to feel heavy.

“Ma’joraa?” Her companion exclaimed as she crumpled, her weapon clattering to the floor as the poison invaded her system, but her ears were ringing so loudly that she did not hear him.

Ma’joraa, the Last Dragonborn, could not feel her body. She could move only her eyes—her limbs were deadweights, and she could only watch as her companion confronted their target alone. To her surprise, they seemed to be talking, though both their weapons were poised to strike.

At length, their target downed a phial of something, and vanished from sight. The Khajiit’s companion remained on guard for several moments, before lowering his weapon and turning to approach her.

“How interesting,” He drawled, leaning on his blade as he studied the Dragonborn’s prostrate figure. “It appears Gallus's history has repeated itself. Karliah has provided me with the means to be rid of you, and this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place.”

The Breton knelt at her side, running an almost gentle hand along Ma’joraa’s feline brow as he continued. “But do you know what intrigues me the most? The fact that this was all possible because of you.”

Ma’joraa’s eyes were wide and scared, and the man seemed to notice that.

“It’s a pity, really,” He murmured, cupping her cheek in his calloused hand, “You showed such promise. You could have easily been the next guildmaster, if only you hadn’t stumbled upon this. I could have showed you so much.”

The Khajiit whispered something, and the Breton leaned down.

“Hm? What’s that?”

 _“Lah…Haas!”_ She wheezed out, and the man winced as he felt his already-depleted energy drained even more. But the Thu’um was weakened along with its owner, and could neither incapacitate the man nor strengthen the Khajiit.

“Mm, nice try,” the Breton smiled down at her, “But not good enough.”

His hand snaked around to the back of her neck, unclasping the blue amulet of Talos she wore before heaving himself upright.

“Farewell, rookie,” He said, pocketing the necklace and readying his weapon. “I’ll be sure to give Brynjolf your regards.”

The she-cat tried desperately to muster another shout, but she could only lay helplessly as the man she had thought was her friend stabbed unmercifully downward.

 

* * *

 

A ginger-haired Nord leapt upright as the door to the Ragged Flagon banged open, startling the occupants within.

“Mercer, you’re back!” He exclaimed, sheathing his dagger. “How did it go? Did you get Karliah? Where’s the lass?”

One look at the Breton’s stricken face confirmed his worst fears.

“I’m sorry, Brynjolf,” Mercer Frey said softly, opening his hand to reveal a blue amulet of Talos. “Ma’joraa saved me from Karliah, and she would have survived if that bitch hadn’t poisoned the arrow.”

Brynjolf felt as though the air had been driven from him. Ma’joraa, the silent, dragon-voiced lass he had grown so fond of, dead?

“…Was she in pain for long?” He rasped, his voice cracking as he took the amulet.

“No, thank the Divines,” Frey replied wearily, “She faded within minutes. She was a good recruit; you did well in bringing her here.”

“Perhaps if I hadn’t, she’d still be alive,” Brynjolf muttered, before turning and heading into the darkness of the cistern.

Once he was well away from the other members of the guild, the Nord let his back hit the wall, gripping the amulet so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands and sobbing quietly.

“Oh, lass, I’m so, so sorry…”


	2. Paaz Shul Grind

_Several months prior..._

Brynjolf eyed the calico-spotted Khajiit who peeked cautiously out of the Black-Briar Meadery, allowing himself a smirk. She looked decidedly lost in Riften’s marketplace, her padded hand resting on her dagger hilt at every passing guard, hoping they wouldn’t notice she had sneaked into the city instead of paying the entrance fee. She was small and lean, armored in leather likely taken from the corpse of some unfortunate bandit. Still, she looked to be ideal thief material, Brynjolf thought.

Ma’joraa, the Last Dragonborn, took in the city of Riften as she wandered the marketplace. She paused to admire the merchant Madesi’s jewelry, taking a little comfort in the presence of another of the beastfolk. Not a bad place, the Khajiit thought, but she could smell the scent of many beings from the well in the midst of the market. Riften hid many things below its wood-paneled exterior.

Her train of thought was interrupted as someone jostled her amidst the crowd. She turned to see a red-haired Nord touching his brow to her in apology.

“Sorry, lass,” He said, before vanishing just as quickly as he had appeared. Ma’joraa shrugged it off and continued browsing.

“Alright, that’ll be ten septims,” The Dumner merchant set the bottle of ale the Khajiit had indicated before her.

_“Kogaan—”_ Ma’joraa began in thanks, but the instant the word left her mouth, she knew something was amiss. Her hand went to her throat, feeling for her amulet, but it was gone.

The Dragonborn fought panic, the bewildered shopkeeper forgotten as she whirled to scan the crowd.

There he was, that absolute Falmer-spawn.

“Nice necklace you’ve got,” The red-haired Nord remarked, examining the object as Ma’joraa stormed up to his stall, claws unsheathed. “Now, now, no need to make a scene. I just wanted a closer look. Not often you see an object of Talos this color.”

The she-cat extended her hand, pads upward, a clear demand for it back.

“What, you mute?” The man raised an eyebrow at her silence, but placed the amulet in her outstretched hand. Ma’joraa retied the object about her neck before cautiously signing, _hands?_

“Ah, the Language of Hands,” The man said, “Most in my profession know it, myself included. It can be quite useful for remaining hidden, be it from Penitus Oculatus or in a closet with a Jarl’s daughter.”

The Khajiit lifted an eyebrow at this, but just signed, _what do you want?_

“Oh, I just thought you might want to earn a little coin,” The man gave a charming smile. “Name’s Brynjolf. Pleasure to meet you.”

* * *

 

“Alright Brand-Sei, turn out your pockets.”

Ma’joraa rejoined Brynjolf at his stall, as the Riften guard escorted the hapless shopkeeper away to the jails.

“What an unfortunate mix-up,” The Nord said with a smirk.

_Most unfortunate,_ Ma’joraa signed.

“Not bad for a chance arrangement,” Brynjolf went on, “I have a feeling this isn’t your first time at this. If you’re interested, there’s more there that came from.”

_I’m listening._

* * *

 

_“Another_ new recruit? You’d better have a damn good reason for this Bryn.”

“Trust me Vex, this one shows real promise. She passed my first test with flying colors. She’s taking care of business right now, but she’ll be along soon.”

Brynjolf propped his boots on a table of the Ragged Flagon, sipping from a bottle of mead while he awaited Ma’joraa’s arrival. Her stealth was impressive, but the Ratway was used to that. She would have to fight her way to them.

At length, a clamor echoed through the tunnels, sounding as though it came from just outside the tavern. Metal ground against metal, combined with the odd snarl of exertion.

_“Zun…Haal!”_

The shockwave from the _Thu’um_  sent dust raining from the ceiling and created ripples across the water at the tavern’s edge, startling the Thieves Guild as it echoed like thunder through the Ratway.

“Sounds like you brought Ulfric himself,” Delvin Mallory cackled.

Brynjolf was just as surprised as his comrades, though he tried not to show it. A mute Khajiit that could utilize the dragon shouts?

His train of thought was interrupted as the door to the Flagon creaked open, revealing a disheveled Ma’joraa, breathing heavily, but unharmed save for a few minor slashes. She approached, gripping her battle-axe warily, and Brynjolf rose to meet her.

“Relax, lass,” He laughed, clapping her on the back, “These are friends of mine. Everyone, this is Ma’joraa. She’s looking to join the guild.”

“Khajiit, eh?” The black-clad Vex eyed the newcomer scathingly. “Been awhile since we’ve had a cat that was actually useful.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Delvin told Ma’joraa with a chuckle, “She’s just a little nervous at another female creating competition.”

“Mallory, I swear by all the gods—”

Brynjolf quietly escorted the Dragonborn away as the two dissolved into bickering, leading her through the back of the tavern. “Don’t mind them,” The Nord told her, moving aside a false panel in a storage closet to expose a door, “There’s a bet on whether or not they’ll get married, and it’s getting higher all the time.”

Ma’joraa suppressed a smile. Thieves and outlaws this rabble might be, but they weren't so different from ordinary people.

“Hey, Mercer, here’s that new recruit I was talking about,” Brynjolf called as they entered the cistern—a vast, circular room that was clearly the main living space for the guild. High above them, light filtered in from what must have been the well in the Riften marketplace. In the center of the room, illuminated by the faint light from above, stood a handsome, dark blond Breton man who must have been Mercer. As Ma’joraa approached, he eyed her up and down critically.

“This had better not be another waste of the guild’s resources,” He said to Brynjolf.

The Dragonborn scowled at this, signing to Brynjolf, _who’s this piece of Falmer scat?_

“That ‘piece of Falmer scat’ is the guildmaster of this place,” Mercer Frey replied coldly, folding his arms across his chest. “And it is only by my good grace that I don’t have Brynjolf slit your throat for that little remark.”

The Nord managed to keep a straight face while Ma’joraa glared at Frey. She was grateful her fur hid her blush, but she wasn’t about to apologize. The stare-down lasted several seconds before the Breton spoke, without breaking eye contact with the Dragonborn.

“I suppose since you’re new, I can let that go,” He said, “But know that if I see you saying something like that again, travelers will be finding pieces of you from here to Solitude. Are we clear?”

Brynjolf saw Ma’joraa’s hand gripping her dagger hilt, but she just lashed her tail and signed an abrupt, _yes._

“Good,” Mercer said, “then it’s time we put your ‘expertise’ to the test.”

“Wait a moment,” Brynjolf intervened, “You’re not talking about Goldenglow are you? Even our Vex couldn’t get in.”

Frey glared at the Nord. “You claimed she possesses an aptitude for this line of work, did you not? If so, let her prove it.”

Here he turned back to Ma’joraa, who still looked as though she would like nothing more than to shred his scowling face. “Goldenglow Estate is vitally important to one of our largest clients,” He told the Khajiit, “However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson. Brynjolf will provide you with the details."

“Mercer, aren’t you forgetting something?” Brynjolf spoke up as the Breton started to turn away. Frey tensed, as though wishing the Nord had kept quiet, before turning back to the Dragonborn.

“Oh, and since Brynjolf assures me that you’ll be nothing but a benefit to us,” He said, clearly loathing every word he spoke, “then you’re in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild.”

With that he turned and stalked off, leaving Ma’joraa feeling the furthest thing from welcome. Once he was out of earshot, Brynjolf exhaled.

“Gods above lass, you don’t know how close you were to being on the business end of his blade,” He told her. “Mercer takes his role as leader very seriously. I’ve seen thieves gutted for less.”

Though she didn’t show it, the Khajiit felt a slight sense of accomplishment at having ruffled such important feathers within five minutes of arriving. She signed to Brynjolf, _so, I’m to send this person at Goldenglow a message?_

“Aye, loud and clear,” The Nord agreed. “Now, here’s what you need to do…”

* * *

 

It was several hours past midnight when a lithe figure dropped down the ladder into the cistern. The Dragonborn was exhausted, her throat aching from overuse of the _Thu’um._ She looked about the place and scowled as she saw the only one still up, buried in his work by lamplight behind his desk.

Mercer Frey looked up as the Khajiit approached, one eyebrow arched expectantly. “Aringoth’s safe?”

_Emptied,_ the Dragonborn signed, before slapping a document on the desk before him. _You’re up late._

“That’s none of your concern, cat,” Frey said brusquely, taking the document. His brow furrowed as he read.

“Aringoth sold Goldenglow?” He muttered aloud, “What’s that idiot thinking?”

The Breton slammed the paper down in anger before rubbing his tired eyes with a groan. “Just what we need. And no buyer listed to boot.”

_I’ve never seen that mark before,_ Ma’joraa signed as she studied the stamp where the buyer’s signature would have been. It resembled a blade of some sort stabbing downward.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Frey growled. “No matter. Tomorrow, you’re off to speak to Maven Black-Briar. She asked for you by name.”

The Dragonborn was surprised at this. From what she’d overheard in Riften and from the other members of the guild, this Black-Briar woman clearly held a lot of influence in the city.

_Sure,_ the Khajiit signed, _but will I come out alive?_

Mercer gave a scoff at this. “Trust me, if she wanted you dead, she wouldn’t even bother talking to you, and you’d already be no more than a stain on the blade of a Brotherhood assassin. It’s just business, and Maven’s business often involves quite a lot of coin for her people.”

Ma’joraa started to reply, but suddenly felt lightheaded as the late hour and intense mission caught up to her, gripping Mercer’s desk for support. The Breton waved her away with a contemptuous snort.

“Get some rest rookie,” He told her, “Try not to get yourself killed just yet.”

She gladly obliged, though she couldn’t help but be a little annoyed—not so much as a _good work_ from him. She supposed she had left a bad first impression on him, but she wasn’t about to apologize and give him the opportunity to be smug about it.

Ma’joraa found an unoccupied cot among the ones that lined the outer edges of the cistern and collapsed upon it. It was musty-smelling and well-used, but reasonably comfortable, far better than what she had made do with in the Skyrim wilderness, be it the stone beds of the Dwemer ruins or a makeshift bedroll amidst a desecrated bandit camp.

The Dragonborn drifted off in minutes, the last thing she saw before sleep rose up to meet her being Mercer Frey, his brow furrowed as he returned to his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I know I'm veering into headcanon territory with the whole sign language thing, so I'm just going to lay it out: for the purposes of this story, since their professions rely heavily on remaining undetected, most members of the Thieves Guild (and the Dark Brotherhood, though they probably won't appear in this story) have at least a rudimentary grasp of Tamriel's sign language. Some court mages/scholars may also have a little experience with it, depending on their age/background. Hopefully that doesn't sound too implausible.
> 
> The chapter title translates to 'Fair Sun Meet,' a (non-canon) way of saying 'nice to meet you.'


	3. Brit Grah

The next day, Ma’joraa looked about the Bee and Barb, Riften’s inn, where she had been told Maven would be waiting. The Khajiit climbed the stairs to the second floor and spotted a brunet Nord woman sitting at a table tucked away in the corner. Judging from her fine clothes and piercing gaze, she was undoubtedly Maven Black-Briar.

“Hm, so you’re the one,” The woman murmured as Ma’joraa approached, “You don’t look so impressive.”

 _Sorry you’re disappointed,_ the Dragonborn signed with a scowl, but Maven held up her hand.

“I don’t know your hand language, cat,” She said with a haughtiness that made Ma’joraa’s hackles rise. “I’ll do the talking, you just nod yes or no. Understood?”

The Dragonborn nodded, though it took every ounce of self-control to take the order.

“Good,” Maven swept on. “I have a competitor called Honningbrew Meadery that I want to put out of business. I also want to know how they managed to get the place up and running so quickly. Head to the Bannered Mare in Whiterun and look for Mallus Maccius. He'll fill you in on all the details.”

Ma’joraa turned to go, eager to be rid of this arrogant woman, but Maven stopped her.

“I hear you’re quite the enigma,” She said, studying the Khajiit carefully. “You do not speak, though you clearly do so by choice, as Brynjolf says he heard you use the dragon shouts of old.”

The Dragonborn tensed, but she met the woman’s gaze steadily in a silent challenge.

“There are reports from Whiterun about a silent warrior who slew a dragon and devoured its soul,” Maven went on, “said warrior was also rumored to have been spotted escaping from the Helgen disaster.”

She gave a humorless chuckle then. “Not bad for a supposed mute. Choose your allegiances carefully, cat. Dragon shouts or no, this is my city. I don’t know why you’ve chosen to join the guild, but make no mistake: they are mine also. Cross me, and you’ll wake one night with a dagger at your throat. Understood?”

 _Yes, Lady Namira,_ Ma’joraa signed, before turning and heading for the stairs. What an absolute draugr.

* * *

 

Dealing with Honningbrew proved easy enough, and soon Ma’joraa and Mallus Maccius watched as the hapless owner was dragged away to the Dragonsreach dungeons. The Dragonborn couldn’t help but feel a twinge of conscience at sending an innocent man to jail.

“You did good,” Mallus remarked, giving the Khajiit a pat on the back before stepping behind the counter to take up his new post as head of the meadery. “Don’t worry about Sabjorn—he’ll rot in Dragonsreach for a couple weeks, but they’ll let him out. I’m sure he will have lost his appetite for the mead business though. Don’t let it dampen your spirits.”

The man rummaged in his pocket for a moment. “Here’s a key I found in his dresser—it may open some doors for you.”

He tossed her the key, and Ma’joraa made her way upstairs to Sabjorn’s living space. She found a locked trunk that refused to be picked, but tried the key and the lock clicked open.

Here we go, the Khajiit thought, tossing boots, books and assorted clothing aside until she found a stack of documents at the bottom. Perfect.

-ooo-

“Well, this doesn’t tell me much,” Maven grumbled as she scanned the documents. Ma’joraa stood by, bracing herself to be talked down to. “The only identification of Sabjorn’s funder is this little symbol.”

The Dragonborn studied the mark—the same blade stabbing downwards that had been on the Goldenglow bill of sale.

“Well, whoever this mysterious marking represents, they’ll regret starting a war with me,” The Black-Briar growled. “You’d better show this to the Thieves Guild at once. Oh, and here’s your pay.”

She tossed Ma’joraa a small sack of coins before waving her away. “Off with you now, before you get hair on my clothes.”

The Dragonborn did as she was told, not caring if her irritation at the woman’s condescending tone showed on her face.

Back in the cistern, the Khajiit found Mercer behind his desk as usual, a thunderous expression on his face. “Word on the street is that Sabjorn’s found himself in Whiterun’s prison,” The Breton said, making a visible effort to calm himself down as Ma’joraa approached. “How unfortunate for him.”

_Yet very fortunate for Maven._

Mercer nodded in approval. “Exactly. Now you’re beginning to see how our little system works. I’m still combing through our sources looking for a lead, so why don’t you take a small job or two while you wait.”

Pleased with finally garnering a somewhat positive response from him, the Khajiit turned to go, but paused as the Breton called after her. “Oh, and Brynjolf wants to talk to you. He’s waiting in the Flagon.”

The distress on the Dragonborn’s face must have been obvious, for Frey almost smiled.

“Don’t worry rookie, you’re not in trouble,” he reassured her, “He’s just curious about you, like he is with every new recruit. And even I must admit, there is a lot to be curious about with you.”

Ma’joraa made her way into the Flagon, occupied as usual by Delvin Mallory, Vex, and a couple other members of the guild taking a break between jobs. Brynjolf waved her over to his table, offering her a bottle.

“I hear you did good at Honningbrew,” the ginger-haired man said, propping his boots on the table. “Forgive me if this is intrusive, and you’ve no obligation to answer, but I’ve been curious about you ever since I saw you in the market. You’re new to Skyrim, aren’t you?”

 _That’s right,_ Ma’joraa signed. _The Thalmor may be on friendly terms with my people, but I worship Talos, which apparently removes any credibility in their eyes. I came here from Cyrodiil to escape their oppression._

“Skyrim isn’t much better at that,” Brynjolf remarked, lacing his fingers across his stomach, to which the Khajiit scowled.

_I’ve noticed. I was hoping for an uneventful trip, but that went out the window when I got a ride with some blathering idiot in merryman’s clothes. Wouldn’t shut up about how he was taking his mother’s body from Bravil to a new sanctuary, or some such nonsense._

Nearby, Delvin Mallory choked on his ale. Brynjolf looked over at him in concern. “You alright lad?”

“I’m fine,” Mallory managed between coughs, “Don’t—don’t mind me.”

 _Anyway, I made it across the border,_ Ma’joraa continued, _but I didn’t get far before I ran into some dragon-voiced oaf who called himself Ulfric. He knocked me down with a shout, so I returned the favor. Not long after…why are you smiling?_

The Nord quickly composed himself, though it clearly took a great deal of effort. “It’s nothing. Please, do continue.”

_Right after that, we were ambushed by Imperial soldiers. They were after Ulfric and his friends, and I got caught up with them. We were carted off to Helgen, and those Imperial idiots would have killed me for no reason had that dragon not shown up. I managed to escape, and the rest is history._

Brynjolf chuckled then. “Looks like you’ve had quite a time. And all that without speaking? Must have been frustrating.”

 _It was,_ Ma’joraa agreed, her ears flattening at the memory. _That’s part of why I stick around here. It’s refreshing to have people who understand my hands._

The Nord nodded, thinking over her story. He had been trying to get her to talk about her voice, how she did not speak save to shout, but she had carefully avoided the topic.

“You’ve survived this long, so you must be pretty good with that axe,” He said, changing the subject, to which the Khajiit just shrugged. “A good thief usually sticks to something smaller and lighter though, like a dagger, or just fists on occasion. How good are you on that?”

Ma’joraa lifted a brow at this, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. _You sound like you want to test my skills._

“Well, if you’re up for it,” Brynjolf flashed a roguish grin. “Winner buys drinks?”

* * *

 

Mercer Frey’s concentration was broken by a commotion before him. The Breton looked up from his paperwork, and arched an eyebrow incredulously at what he saw. Brynjolf and the mute Khajiit stood in the middle of the cistern, both stripped to the waist, with a small crowd of guild members gathering around them.

“Alright lass, I hope you’ve got come coin on you,” Brynjolf teased. “Since you’re new, I’ll try not to hit you too hard.”

Before Ma’joraa could even register his words, the Nord’s fist cracked across her jaw, sending her staggering backwards. She spat blood, eyes blazing at being caught off guard, but recovered and retaliated. Brynjolf grunted as her hard fist connected with his gut. He blocked her next blow on his forearm, the air leaving her in a sharp huff as his knee drove into her midriff. The Nord had size and strength to his advantage, but Ma’joraa was small and quick. She dodged his uppercut, getting used to his brute-force style. Brynjolf caught her next blow however, twisting her arm sideways and eliciting a hiss of pain. Ma’joraa tore away from him and the two broke apart momentarily. Already the Khajiit knew she couldn’t win, not like this at least.

“Had enough already?” Brynjolf taunted her, grinning despite his dishevelment and clearly having the time of his life.

Ma’joraa unclenched her fists then, and the Nord felt an involuntary shiver go down his spine as her claws emerged. He drew his dagger from his boot, his delight unquestionable.

“That’s more like it,” He chuckled, his emerald eyes darkening.

The Thieves’ Guild sat riveted as the two engaged again. The Khajiit’s claws left a slash on the Nord’s cheek, before he lowered his shoulder and drove into her. Ma’joraa landed heavily, rolling to the side before Brynjolf could pin her. Her left arm throbbed from where it had been twisted, so she used it mostly to block while swinging with her right. The Nord took advantage of this, pushing blow after blow and slash after slash with seemingly infinite stamina. Forced to use both arms to block and deflect, the Khajiit brought her knee up and tried to drive it into his groin, but missed and hit his hip instead. It broke his concentration though. Her claws unsheathed in the same instant his blade came up.

The pair froze, Brynjolf’s dagger pricking her throat, Ma’joraa’s claws a hair’s breadth from his eye. After several heartbeats of tense silence and ragged breathing, the Nord smirked.

“Not bad lass,” He said, releasing her and flipping his blade expertly before sheathing it in his boot. The onlookers, silent until now, exploded into noise. Laughter and curses as bets were paid echoed in the cistern. Ma’joraa glanced over at Mercer Frey, who just gave a slight smile and nodded in approval from his spot behind his desk.

“That was something else, cat,” Delvin Mallory laughed, clapping the Khajiit’s sweat-damped back. “I’ll admit, I was fully expecting you to get your ass handed to you. Brynjolf doesn’t fight often, but when he does, he always wins. Even just tying with him is no small feat.”

“Hey now, don’t give her too much credit,” The Nord called from where he was receiving similar treatment, “I was going easy on her.”

Ma’joraa’s jaw and arm ached abominably, but it was nothing a quick healing spell wouldn’t fix. She felt quite pleased with herself for at least holding her own, even if she had come out the most battered of the tie.

“A little training and you could be quite the threat,” Brynjolf remarked, wiping sweat from his brow as the crowd began to disperse. “I certainly wouldn’t object to a few more spars like this sometime—the view is quite pleasant.”

Ma’joraa rolled her eyes, tossing the Nord’s leather cuirass over his face before strapping on her own and signing, _you’re not half bad yourself…for a Nord._

“Why lass, you flatter me,” He laughed. “I’d better not keep you any longer—Mercer dislikes being interrupted when he’s working, though I’m sure he enjoyed that brawl.”

 _If he’s anything like you, I bet I know why,_ Ma’joraa replied with a smirk. She looked over at the Breton, but he was buried in his work once more, oblivious to their banter.

 _I’m to do a few small jobs while Mercer investigates,_ she signed. _See you in a few days?_

“Aye,” Brynjolf nodded. “Happy thieving!”

* * *

 

Ma’joraa bushed her calico fur against the biting snow, keeping her battle-axe ready in case an ice wraith was on the hunt. The Khajiit had taken a detour on the road to Vex’s job in Windhelm, and though it was quite out of the way, she needed to speak to someone.

The Last Dragonborn finally reached the mountain’s peak, sucking in the thin air as she caught her breath from the long trek. Before her sat a crumbling wall inscribed with a language that could only be written with great claws. Curled in the curve of the structure, the wall’s scribe lay amidst a large patch of melted snow. His ancient eyes were shut in slumber, oblivious to the snow that hit his armored hide and melted instantly.

 _“Drem yol lok, Paar-thur-nax,”_ Ma’joraa intoned as she approached, relishing the feeling of finally being able to speak aloud. The great dragon stirred, lifting his head and blinking drowsily at the Khajiit. His voice was like the grinding of stone upon stone, but held a kindness to it.

 _“Drem yol lok,_ Dovahkiin. It seems you have caught an old _dovah_ at rest,” Paarthurnax rumbled, before exposing his maw in a massive yawn. “What brings you to the Throat of the World? Surely not the mere pleasure of my company.”

Ma’joraa sat down in the crook of the dragon’s wing, leaning against the warm scales. Paarthurnax, like all fire dragons, generated heat like a furnace, a welcome respite amidst the numbing winds of Skyrim’s highest peak.

 _“Nahlot joor zul,”_ The Dragonborn said. _Silence mortal voice._ _“Dii nunon zul-durn vahrukt.”_ _My only voice-curse memory._

“You wish to know why,” The dragon guessed, “and who, who silenced your mortal voice, and awakened your _Thu’um.”_

Ma’joraa nodded again. _“Al-du-in?”_

“No, the World-Eater it could not have been,” Paarthurnax rumbled. “You were cursed long before he resurfaced, and long before the _slen tiid vo,_ the un-death, of most Tamriel dragons.”

The Dragonborn sighed wearily. From infancy, her voice was simply incapable of producing sounds that translated into any mortal language. All she remembered was a large hand resting on her brow, and the three words murmured over her: _nahlot joor zul._ Silence mortal voice. Since then, the only words that would come out when she tried to speak seemed to others to be incomprehensible gibberish, what she now knew to be the language of dragons. She had learned that pairing certain words together could make extraordinary things happen, but sometimes deadly as well. The risk of speaking a word that could maim or kill anyone around her was too great, so she became mute to the world.

 _“Zu’u hind tinvaak,”_ The Khajiit’s voice cracked as she spoke. _I wish to speak._

Paarthurnax brought his great head around to butt her gently in a draconic gesture of comfort. _“Drem, goraan briinah._ If you will take the speculation of an old _dovah_ …whoever has placed this burden upon you, I think they are still waiting for you somewhere. Given the nature of your curse, the chance is high that they knew of your dragon blood before you yourself knew.”

Ma’joraa had thought of that many times, but it seemed impossible. Who would wait for so long? And where? Who could have known that she could eat the souls of dragons when dragons were virtually extinct?

 _“Kogaan, zeymah,”_ She said at length. _Thank you, brother._

She forced herself to her feet away from the warmth of the dragon and came around to his face. His ancient eyes were soft with kindness as the Khajiit hugged his rough snout.

 _“Lok, Thu’um,”_ Ma’joraa spoke the farewell with a sad smile. _Sky above, Voice within._

 _“Lok, Thu’um,_ Dovahkiin,” Paarthurnax replied. “May your skies be ever clear.”

* * *

 

The Dragonborn untied her horse from a tree at the base of the mountain and set off once more, feeling much better. She glanced back to see if her follower was still there. She had noticed the stalker just before Ivarstead—a mere shimmer, a bending of the light that denoted an invisibility spell.

Ma’joraa set her gaze ahead, keep up the façade of ignorance. Whoever was tailing her could have easily killed her by now. She would wait and see what they were playing at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I have this little headcanon that the way the Khajiit and Argonians look in-game (basically an animal head and tail pasted on human bodies) is just because it's easier for the developers, and they don't actually look that way in-universe. This particularly goes for the females. Like, irl female reptiles and cats don't have pronounced mammaries the same way humans do. So lady Argonians/Khajiit would be pretty flat-chested. Additionally, since they're part animal, I imagine they don't really have the same views regarding nudity--like, they wear clothes, but only because it's the polite thing to do when interacting with other races.
> 
> The chapter title translates to '(A) Beautiful Battle,' or 'a good/worthy fight'
> 
>  
> 
> Drem, goraan briinah = 'Peace, little sister'


	4. Fahdonne ahrk Vokunne

Late afternoon saw Ma’joraa boarding her mount at the Windhelm stables, and making her way into the ancient city. Stormcloak soldiers strode the streets, and though some cast scathing glances at the Khajiit, one look at her battle-axe sent them quickly on their way.

This was the place, the Dragonborn thought. She was to go to the Atheron residence, break in, and take the silver ruby ring from within. Easy enough.

Ma’joraa looked up at the Palace of Kings. It was still several hours until nightfall, the ideal time to break in. In the meantime, she supposed she could pay a visit to an acquaintance.

She didn’t make it two steps into the palace before her way was barred by a sword across her path.

“Hold, Khajiit,” The Stormcloak guard said, “What business have you with the Jarl?”

Oh boy, Ma’joraa thought. She tapped her throat and shook her head.

“Oh, a mute, are you?” The guard snorted. “If you can’t speak then you’ve no business with the Jarl. Off with you now, before I throw you in the dungeons for getting on my nerves.”

The Dragonborn bristled. Though most took her muteness in stride, it was not unusual to find some who took offense at her lack of speech.

 _I want to see the Jarl,_ she signed, not caring that the guard couldn’t understand her.

“Are you trying to put a curse on me?” The Stormcloak stepped back, readying his weapon. “I said, get out before I—”

“What’s going on here?”

Soldier and Khajiit halted at the new voice. A fair-haired Nord approached, dressed similarly to the guard in the leather, blue-sashed armor of the Stormcloaks. Then he saw Ma’joraa and stopped in his tracks.

“You,” He said in confusion, before his gaze lit in recognition. “You’re the one from Helgen! Ma—Ma’joraa, was it? By Talos, you’re still alive!”

“Sir, you know this Khajiit?” The bewildered guard asked.

“Aye,” The man replied, “and with all she’s been through, she has every right to walk in here the same as you and I. Back to your post now, before I tell the Jarl you were apprehending a friend of his.”

Ma’joraa was beginning to remember now—this was Ralof, one of the Stormcloaks she had been captured with, and who had helped her escape the wrath of the World-Eater.

“It’s so good to see you again!” Ralof exclaimed, escorting the Khajiit down the massive hall towards the throne. “You turned west coming out of that cave, and I was sure I’d seen the last of you, but here you are!”

The Nord managed to quell his excitement momentarily, sitting her down at one of the long tables near the throne. “You wait here while I go tell the Jarl and fetch Wuunferth—hopefully he’ll be able to translate that hand-language you use.”

He hurried off, leaving Ma’joraa to look about the great hall in awe. Banners emblazoned with the bear of the Stormcloaks hung the length of the room. Long banquet tables occupied most of the room’s center, and at the end, the currently-vacant throne overlooked it all.

Just then a door to the left of the throne banged open, the unexpected noise causing the Khajiit to leap upright. Framed in the doorway was a massive Nord, fair-haired and fur-clad, yet familiar. His rugged features creased in a grin as he saw her, but Ma’joraa spotted the change in his eyes—the same that happened to her—and just had time to match his shout with her own.

_“Fus!”_

The Nord was only staggered by the _Thu’um_ , but the much smaller Khajiit was knocked from her feet. She absorbed most of the impact with a backward roll and scrambled upright as the man’s booming laughter echoed in the great hall.

“Ah!” He roared, hurrying forward to lift Ma’joraa bodily from the ground in a massive bear hug, “The cat with the dragon’s voice has returned! Talos be praised!”

The Jarl of Windhelm set her down, allowing the Khajiit to smooth her ruffled fur. Behind him in the doorway, another man clad in bearskins spoke up.

“Ulfric, is this the one you met at the border?”

“Aye, Galmar,” Ulfric Stormcloak gave Ma’joraa a hearty clap on the back, nearly driving the wind from her. “Don’t let her size fool you—this daughter of Elsweyr knocked me into the stream with that voice of hers.”

Just then Ralof returned, accompanied by a greying mage. “I knew you’d already met when I felt the shockwave,” Ralof laughed, “Ma’joraa, this is Wuunferth, our resident mage.”

Wuunferth bowed. “It has been many years since I saw the Language of Hands used, but I will do my best to translate.”

“Excellent,” Ulfric said. “Now, I know we’re all thinking the same thing. Ma’joraa, are the rumors from Whiterun true? Are you the one who slew a dragon and devoured its soul?”

The Khajiit nodded, suddenly feeling a little bashful.

“Incredible!” The Jarl laughed, “The Dragonborn lives again! Talos has indeed smiled upon us today. Tell me friend Khajiit, have you come to join our cause and drive the Imperial dogs from Skyrim?”

 _Not yet, friend,_ Ma’joraa signed, smiling at his enthusiasm, _I’m just here on business and thought I’d stop for a visit. I still have much to learn about this country before I pick a side in your civil war._

Wuunferth translated, and Ulfric nodded thoughtfully. “That is fair. I suppose I should not expect the Dragonborn to do anything of importance without careful consideration first.”

Ma’joraa was grateful for his understanding—as much as she disliked the Empire, she didn’t know enough about either side to make a solid choice just yet.

 _I must be going,_ she signed at length, glancing out the window to where the mountains cast long shadows before them. _I am glad you are all safe. And who knows—on my next visit, I may be ready to take up the mantle of Stormcloak._

“Until then, you are always welcome here,” Ulfric chuckled, squeezing the breath from her in another crushing embrace. “Safe travels, Dragonborn!”

* * *

 

Ma’joraa exited the palace and slipped into the deepening shadows. Now to business.

The streets of Windhelm were mostly deserted, with only the ever-watchful, torch-bearing guards on patrol. She would have to be careful—only guards and troublemakers were out at night, and she was no guard. If they spotted her, she would be under immediate suspicion.

Ma’joraa made it out of the palace entrance before pausing and glancing about. In the twilight shadows, it was difficult to see even with her inherent Khajiit night eye. She moved to a side street and looked about, straining for any sign of her follower.

In her distraction, she failed to see the torchlight approaching around the corner. She started to move forward but was halted by a tug on the back of her cuirass.

_“Careful, sneakthief.”_

The whisper was barely discernable to even her cat ears, but it could not hide the familiar, sarcastic drawl. She knew its owner immediately, but there were more important issues at the moment. She just had time to press into the shadows as the guard rounded the corner. Ma’joraa remained motionless as he passed by, oblivious to her, his torchlight fading around a bend in the street.

Once he was gone, the Dragonborn glared about at the shadows. If her stalker wanted to whisper, well, two could play at that game.

 _“Laas,”_ She breathed out, _“Yah Nir!”_

The _Thu’um_ rippled across the stones, silhouetting the auras of all nearby souls. A few residents of Windhelm could be seen through the walls of their homes, as well as nearby guards, but Ma’joraa wasn’t interested in them. She fixed on the aura that was not three feet from her, illusion magic webbing between his fingers.

 _I know you’re there,_ she signed, unsheathing her claws, _now show yourself before I carve the magic out of your hands._

The spell dissipated, and a familiar Breton crouched before her.

 _I was wondering when you’d stop acting like you didn’t notice me,_ Mercer Frey signed. Before Ma’joraa could respond, he seized her arm and darted down the street, dragging her with him. He halted in a more well-hidden alleyway.

 _Explain yourself,_ Ma’joraa demanded, her ears pinned back. _Why have you been following me?_

“I promise, it’s nothing personal,” Mercer said, keeping his voice low. “If a new recruit is doing especially well, I may tail them on a job to see their methods. Usually remaining hidden the entire time, of course. You’ve taken quite the unusual detours—climbing the Throat of the World, visiting the Palace of Kings—what next, a tour of the College of Winterhold?”

Ma’joraa’s ears remained back, but she felt slightly less angry, and even a little flattered. He had stayed with her despite the detours, and actually thought she was doing well, despite his brusque attitude.

 _I suppose I shouldn’t expect any help on this, now, should I?_ She signed, to which Mercer snorted.

“It’s your job. Get caught and I’ve never heard of you.”

 _Thanks,_ Ma’joraa replied, sarcasm evident even through her hands.

It didn’t take long for the Dragonborn to find the location—a stately house near the city gates, with the name carved above the threshold.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Mercer growled over her shoulder as Ma’joraa picked at the lock. The pick snapped, and she elbowed him in the ribs to make him move, his presence at her back distracting her. A few more moments of tinkering however and the lock clicked open.

“Have fun,” Frey murmured as Ma’joraa crept into the darkened house, shutting the door behind her with a faint click.

Immediately her nostrils were assaulted with the stench of rotting flesh. The Khajiit nearly gagged, shutting off her nose and breathing through her mouth. What kind of a place was this?

Ma’joraa allowed her eyes to adjust, her pupils dilating so much that her eyes were completely black. She poked around the deserted downstairs, but the place was a mess—the kitchen hadn’t been used in ages, and cobwebs hung everywhere. The Khajiit crept up the stairs to the second floor and the living quarters. Surely there would be something of value there. She risked a sniff, and instantly regretted it—the smell was even worse than on the first floor. Perhaps the owner had died and had yet to be discovered.

“It worked!”

Ma’joraa whipped about at the unexpected cry, claws ready to shred. What she saw however made her stop in her tracks. Just around the corner from the stairs was an alcove that had likely once been used for storage. Now however, it served a far more gruesome purpose. A partially-rotted corpse lay sprawled on the wood floor, surrounded by faintly-glowing candles. Standing over the body was a boy who couldn’t have been much more than ten, waving a bloodied dagger excitedly as he danced about.

“I knew you’d come, I just knew it!” He cried happily, “I did the Black Sacrament over and over, with the body and the—the things—and then you finally came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!”

Ma’joraa could hardly believe her ears. The Dark Brotherhood was virtually nonexistent—the last traces in Cyrodiil had been stamped out over ten years ago with the destruction of the cult’s sanctuary in Cheydinhal, and she wasn’t aware of any existing presence in Skyrim. No wonder this boy had waited so long—he was waiting for an assassin that didn’t exist.

She sheathed her claws. She would humor this boy, if only to get out of this house without him calling the guards.

“You don’t have to say anything,” The boy said, noticing her silence, “There’s no need. You’re here, so I know you’ll accept my contract.”

The Khajiit nodded slowly, positioning herself where she knew the candlelight would reflect eerily off her eyes and give her a more menacing look.

“My mother, she…she died,” The child went on, his shoulders sagging with grief. “I…I’m all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften, Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman named Grelod the Kind. But she’s not kind. She’s terrible, to all of us, so I ran away and came home and performed the Black Sacrament. Now you’re here, and you can kill Grelod the Kind!”

Ma’joraa knew little about the Riften orphanage, but she’d overheard the name Grelod from guards on occasion, and it was never used in a positive way. Then she remembered why she was here and pointed at the boy.

 _“Nii-mah?”_ She rasped out, trying to tone the words to sound like _name._ They meant nothing of the sort in the dragon language, but she needed to know if this was the right house.

“Oh, my name?” The boy straightened. “I’m Aventus Arentino. When you kill Grelod, be sure to tell her who sent you!”

Arentino, the Khajiit thought. Vex had said the Atheron residence, not Arentino. This was the wrong house.

Ma’joraa kept her composure despite irritation at her blunder. She bowed slightly to the boy, and made her way out of the house as silently as she had come.

“Well, how did it go?” Frey murmured as she rejoined him on the street.

 _This is the wrong house,_ Ma’joraa signed with a scowl. _Nobody even lives here._

“’The wrong house?’” Mercer echoed incredulously as they slipped into the shadows once more. “You’re damn lucky no one lives there, though I can’t say I wouldn’t have laughed if you ended up on your ass in jail.”

The Khajiit’s ears burned with embarrassment, but she just checked the parchment Vex had given her with the name of the target house and continued into the night-dark Windhelm streets.

It didn’t take long for the pair to find the correct house. Squeezed into a darkened corner, Ma’joraa triple-checked the name carved above the threshold by the torchlight of a passing guard.

Have fun, rookie, Mercer signed once more with a smirk. The Khajiit rolled her eyes at him before darting across the street. The lock clicked open with ease, and she slipped into the house.

The Atheron residence wasn’t much better than the Arentino residence, Ma’joraa thought as she looked about at the untidy house. Then she saw the figure that sat before the dying hearth and froze.

The owner of the house, Dunmer by the figure, sat with his back to her. He hadn’t noticed the intruder crouching in his doorway yet, but Ma’joraa knew that could change at any moment. She needed to get Vex’s ring and get out as quickly as possible.

The Khajiit set her feet down as lightly as feathers, testing each floorboard for creaks before settling her weight upon it. Her first target would be the knapsack that sat slumped at the base of the stairs. If it wasn’t there, she would likely have to wait until the small hours of the morning. With one resident still awake and who knew how many more upstairs, one false move and she would be rotting in the Windhelm jails, and never hear the end of it from Mercer.

Ma’joraa carefully lifted the leather flap, keeping an eye on the Dunmer, who sipped from a bottle of mead but otherwise remained unmoving and oblivious. She rummaged in the knapsack, reaching past assorted junk and feeling to the bottom. Her fingers brushed a cool band of metal then, and hope sparked in her. The Khajiit hooked the object with a claw and brought it out into the weak light. To her relief, she held a ring of silver and ruby, just like Vex had said.

Just then the Dunmer stood, downing the last few swigs of mead. Ma’joraa’s heart leaped into her throat, leaving the knapsack open and pocketing the ring as she darted silently for the exit. She shut the door just as the Dunmer started to turn towards her, though she couldn’t tell if he noticed anything.

 _I think we may have to make a quick exit,_ she signed to Mercer as he rejoined her in a nearby alley. He raised an eyebrow, beginning to sign what was no doubt a sarcastic reply, but froze as a shout cut the night.

“Thief! Guards, there’s a thief on the loose!”

Ma’joraa cringed at the cry, which was swiftly followed by the jangle of guards coming to investigate. Soon every nook and cranny would be under scrutiny. There was nowhere to hide.

The two started down the alley, but halted as torchlight approached around the bend. They turned back, but light was behind them also. Ma’joraa was preparing to fight her way out when Mercer slung an arm across her shoulders, leaning on her so heavily that she staggered under his bulk.

“There’s a tavern nearby,” He murmured in her ear, “Pretend I’m drunk off my ass.”

Ma’joraa just had time to register his words when two guards appeared ahead of them.

“You there, halt,” One called, lifting his torch.

“Why’s the sun so bright?” Mercer complained, burying his face into Ma’joraa’s neck. The guard gave his companion a look that said, oh great, another drunk.

“A house near here was just broken into,” The second guard said, this one holding a drawn sword. “Have you seen anything, Khajiit?”

Ma’joraa could tell by his tone that he suspected her. She tapped her throat and shook her head.

“She’s a quiet one,” Frey slurred, then with a crooked smile, “Doesn’t let that stop ‘er though, those hands can work wonders.”

“Have you seen anything suspicious?” The guard pressed, annoyance edging his voice.

“Uhm…” Mercer blinked blearily. “Saw a coupla Argonians a bit ago…didn’t pay ‘em no mind though, was a little preoccupied.”

“I’m sure you were,” The torch-bearing guard said, looking pointedly at Ma’joraa. “These Argonians, did you see where they went?”

“Are we really going to go off the word of a drunken fool?” The sword guard growled to his companion. “We’re wasting time. The thief could be halfway to Markarth by the time we get anything out of this idiot.”

“Hey, I ain’t no idiot,” Mercer defended himself, “Right, kitty?”

Ma’joraa tossed the guards an exasperated look as Frey patted her head like a housecat.

“Talos, give me patience,” The guard muttered, then to his comrade, “Let’s go. They don’t know anything. You two, stay out of trouble.”

“Toodles!” Mercer called after them as the guards tramped down the alley and out of sight. The moment they were gone, Ma’joraa exhaled with relief.

Frey kept his hand on the small of her back as they hurried out of the alley, and the Khajiit felt the prickle of magic from his fingers. She glanced down and saw that neither she nor the Breton were visible, thanks to his illusion magic.

“I trust not every mission goes as poorly as this,” Frey murmured, his voice laced with amusement. Ma’joraa’s ears burned with embarrassment. She was equal parts irritated at him for being a bother and grateful for the drunken ruse that had likely kept her from jail.

The pair left the city by way of the docks, crossing the iced-over river and retrieving Ma’joraa’s horse from the stables. They rode a little way south before making camp beneath a sheltered rock ledge.

 _“Yol,”_ The Khajiit murmured, and flames rippled from her lips to catch on the pile of sticks. Paarthurnax would have disapproved, she thought in amusement. She could almost hear him now— _the_ Thu’um _was not created to warm your toes, Khajiit._

Mercer watched her in fascination as she carefully stoked the fire. Ma’joraa could feel his eyes on her, though she pretended not to notice.

“Amazing,” He remarked as the Dragonborn moved to unpacking her bedroll. “You merely speak a word, and that causes something to happen. If you can speak such power, why do you remain so silent?”

_…It’s a long story._

“We have time, do we not?”

Ma’joraa studied the Breton’s face carefully. He seemed genuinely interested in why she was the way she was. The Khajiit extended her feet to the fire and began signing her story, the same that she had related to Brynjolf and Paarthurnax.

Once she was through, her hands and wrists ached from overuse. Mercer sat in silence, as he had the entire time.

“I see,” He said at length. “Because you do not know which words may contain power when spoken, even using them to get around the curse could be deadly, so you do not speak at all. And that amulet of Talos…they say Tiber Septim could use the dragon shouts as well. I assume that helps you to channel the power somewhat?”

 _Right,_ Ma’joraa signed. _The shouts, especially at their full power, take a lot out of me. The amulet helps to alleviate some of the strain and allows me to shout more often without getting tired._

“I’m sure that comes in handy,” Frey murmured, before giving a slight chuckle. “You know, when Brynjolf first dragged you in off the street, I was sure you were going to be nothing more than a colossal pain in the ass.”

 _I noticed,_ Ma’joraa signed, waiting for him to continue before deciding whether to get annoyed or not.

“You’ve proven yourself to be quite useful to us,” Mercer went on. “I don’t usually give out praise so freely, but even I must admit you’re quite the competent thief, even if you apparently work best alone.”

Ma’joraa smiled bashfully, grateful her fur hid her blush. Mercer reached over and covered her slender hand with his large one, his thumb massaging the aching tendons of her wrist.

“I’m glad to have met you, Ma’joraa,” The Breton said softly, his usually stern face creased in a smile. “You get some rest now. I’ll take the first watch.”

The Khajiit’s heart was racing—she hadn’t expected such a tender gesture from him. Her hands fumbled with her battle-axe as she unstrapped it from her back, laying it beside her bedroll where it would be close at hand should wolves or bandits attack. She tucked herself into her bedroll, looking past the fire at the outline of Mercer’s back as the Breton took up his post, one hand resting on his Dwemer-forged blade. Ma’joraa drifted to sleep, feeling happy for the first time in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laas Yah Nir = 'Life Seek Hunt,' the Aura Whisper shout
> 
> The chapter title translates to 'Friends and Shadows'


	5. Alok Strun

The next morning, Mercer informed the Dragonborn that a courier had arrived in the night, carrying reports from the guild’s sources across Skyrim.

“I’ve consulted my contacts regarding the information you recovered from Goldenglow,” The Breton said as they packed up camp, “but nobody can identify that symbol.”

 _I found the same marking at Honningbrew,_ the Khajiit signed.

“It would seem our adversary is trying to take us apart indirectly by angering Maven Black-Briar,” Mercer went on, “If they weren’t such a thorn in our side, I might almost admire their cleverness.”

Ma’joraa couldn’t resist a smile. _Maybe we should recruit them._

Frey snorted. “You jest, but they’ve been able to avoid identification for years. They clearly have a lot of skill, and a lot of patience. But even after all their posturing and planning, they’ve made a mistake.”

The Dragonborn left off strapping her bedroll onto her horse and came to sit across from the Breton by the dying campfire, leaning forward eagerly. Frey smirked.

“I knew that would get your attention. The documents you recovered mention a ‘Gajul-Lei.’ According to my sources, that’s an old alias used by one of our contacts. His real name is Gulum-Ei. Slimy bastard.”

Probably Argonian, Ma’joraa thought, judging by the name.

 _Where should I begin?_ She signed.

“Gulum-Ei is our inside man at the East Empire Company in Solitude,” Mercer explained. “I’m betting he acted as a go-between for the sale of Goldenglow Estate, and that he has at least a name on our buyer. I want you to get out there, shake him down, and see what you can come up with. That scoundrel’s folly will cost him dearly.”

What about you? Ma’joraa asked, rising to finish packing up.

“I’ll carriage back to Riften,” The Breton reassured her, “Don’t worry about me.”

He came up beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Make me proud, rookie.”

With that, he strode down the road towards the Windhelm stables, leaving Ma’joraa with her heart racing. Was this love? The Khajiit thought as she saddled her horse. She had little experience with the sensation—it was difficult to find someone who would love a mute—but she didn’t know what else it could be. The way his voice sent shivers up and down her spine, how his touch set her stomach to fluttering…if this was love, she never wanted it to end.

The Dragonborn stamped out the remains of the fire before mounting her horse and turning west, starting towards Solitude with a smile on her face.

* * *

 

“And you’re sure I’ll be safe here?”

“Relax mate, my crew knows their business. If anyone followed you, they’ll be floating facedown in the water before—”

Gulum-Ei stared at the dagger that was buried hilt-deep in the neck of his mercenary. The bandit toppled with a hoarse rattle, and the Argonian felt cold steel against his throat.

“N-now there’s no need to do anything rash,” He sputtered as hot breath brushed his jaw. “This isn’t as bad as it seems. I was going to tell Mercer everything, honestly!”

His assailant came around to face him. As he had suspected, it was the mute Khajiit from the Solitude inn. Her battle-axe thudded into the dirt a hair’s breadth from his tail.

 _Spill it, slimescale,_ she signed with bared teeth, _or I’ll spill your guts._

“No, please!” The Argonian yelped, “I—I’ll tell you everything. It’s Karliah. The name of the one who bought Goldenglow is Karliah.”

_You say that name like I should know it._

“Mercer never told you about her?” Gulum-Ei’s fearful expression turned incredulous. “She’s the one who murdered the former guildmaster Gallus. And now she’s after Mercer.”

 _And you’re helping her?_ Ma’joraa placed the edge of her battle-axe against his throat.

“I—no, no!” The Argonian cried, his fear returning. “Look, I didn’t even know it was her until after she contacted me. Please, you’re a beast like me—you’d know if I was lying.”

He was right—the Khajiit could see no lie in him. She removed her weapon from his throat but kept it ready. _Where is Karliah now?_

“I don’t know,” Gulum-Ei admitted, “When I asked her, she just muttered, ‘where the end began.’”

The Argonian fished a crumpled parchment from his pocket. “Here—take the Goldenglow Estate deed as proof. And when you speak to Mercer, please tell him I’m worth more to him alive.”

 _I’ll consider it,_ Ma’joraa signed, before slamming the flat of her weapon across the side of his head. Gulum-Ei crumpled, out cold, as the Khajiit pocketed the deed and slipped into the cave’s back passage, her job complete.

* * *

 

The Dragonborn dropped down the ladder into the now-familiar cistern, exhausted. She had been away for nearly six days, from her departure on the Windhelm job to now.

“Did Gulum-Ei know anything useful?” Mercer Frey looked up from his paperwork as the Khajiit leaned on his desk for support.

 _He said Goldenglow was purchased by a ‘Karliah,’_ Ma’joraa signed.

Mercer went deathly still at the name. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, dangerous growl.

“No, it…it can’t be. I haven’t heard that name in decades. She’s someone I hoped to never cross paths with again."

 _Gulum-Ei also told me she was a murderer,_ the Khajiit signed, perturbed by the Breton’s darkened gaze.

“Karliah destroyed everything this guild stood for,” Frey snarled, his fist clenching in fury. “She murdered my predecessor in cold blood and betrayed the guild. After we discovered what she’d done, we spent months trying to track her down, but she just vanished.”

_Why has she returned?_

“She and I were like partners,” Mercer explained, “We went with each other on every heist. We had each other’s backs. I know her techniques, her skills—if she kills me, there’ll be no one left who could possibly catch her. If only we knew where she was, we could get her before she strikes.”

 _Gulum-Ei told me she said she would be ‘where the end began,’_ Ma’joraa remembered.

Recognition flickered in the Breton’s gaze. “There’s only one place that could be—the place where she killed Gallus, a ruin called Snow Veil Sanctum north of Windhelm. We have to get out there before she disappears again.”

Ma’joraa’s heart sank at the prospect of going on the road again so soon. She tried to put on a brave face, but Mercer saw through it easily.

“I know you’re tired,” He said, giving her hand a sympathetic squeeze, “I wouldn’t have come all the way back here if I’d known myself, but we can’t let her slip through our fingers. You can sleep on the way. I’ll meet you at the stables in an hour.”

The Khajiit turned and made for her bed. It took all her willpower to merely sit on the edge and not collapse into slumber. Her limbs felt like lead, and her body wanted nothing more than to sleep.

“Heading out again so soon?”

Ma’joraa looked up at the familiar accent to see Brynjolf approaching.

 _A ghost of Mercer’s past has come back to haunt him,_ she told him as the Nord sat beside her. _Her name is Karliah, and we’re going to kill her._

“Mercer told me about her once,” Brynjolf recalled, “She was before my time, but all the senior guild members remember her well, and not in a good way.”

He noticed the Khajiit rubbing her tired eyes and patted her back sympathetically. “Here, take this potion. It’ll give you energy.”

 _Thanks,_ Ma’joraa signed wearily, taking the small green bottle he had fished from his waist pouch.

“Good luck out there, lass,” Brynjolf said, clapping her shoulder. “Once you get back, care for a rematch?”

 _Depends,_ the Khajiit smirked. _Are you actually interested, or do you just want to see me without my armor on again?_

Brynjolf flashed a cheeky smile. “How about a little of both?”

_Deal. I suppose I wouldn’t mind seeing you without your armor on as well._

“Fair enough,” The Nord laughed. “I’d better not keep you any longer. Stay safe out there, and tell Mercer we’re all rooting for you.”

He leaned over and pressed a swift kiss to Ma’joraa’s cheek, before heaving himself upright and leaving her shaking her head fondly at his roguish charm.

* * *

 

“Ma’joraa, wake up. We’re almost there.”

The Dragonborn blinked blearily, registering first the voice murmured in her ear, then the nip of snow upon her face. She sat upon her horse, which plowed through the cold at a fast lope. The reins were gripped by one of the hands that encircled her, the other resting on her hip to keep her steady. Her back rested against the warm bulk of Mercer Frey.

“The ruins will be crawling with draugr,” Mercer said, his voice vibrating through his chest and sending tingles down Ma’joraa’s spine. “Once we get in there, I’ll have to play like you and speak with silence. Those undead have been undisturbed for centuries—the slightest unusual noise, and they’ll wake.”

Ma’joraa looked ahead to where a burial mound could be seen through the snow. She rested a hand on her dagger, ready to fight.

“You’re new to Skyrim, so you may not have explored a Nordic tomb before,” Frey went on. “They’re often heavily trapped, so be on the lookout. The last thing we need is you blundering into one of them and waking every damn draugr in the place.”

There’s that snark again, Ma’joraa thought, but she couldn’t stay annoyed with him for long—his proximity took care of that.

The pair scouted the ruins, Mercer dispatching a horse that was undoubtedly Karliah’s, before meeting up again at the tomb’s entrance.

“You lead,” Frey said as he tinkered with the lock. “I’ll watch your back. Remember, Karliah is sharp as a blade, so don’t let your guard down for even a second.”

The lock clicked, and the door groaned open, expelling a gust of musty air that smelled of dust and death.

“After you, rookie,” Mercer flourished a bow, extending a hand into the tomb. Ma’joraa unhooked her battle-axe from her back and stepped into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not terribly happy with this chapter--it just seems too filler-y. Luckily from here on out things will get way more interesting. Angst ahoy!
> 
> The chapter title translates to 'Rising Storm.'


	6. Su'um arkh Morah

_“I’ll be sure to give Brynjolf your regards.”_

Ma’joraa jerked awake, her movement sending pain lancing through her side. She snarled in agony, and immediately a female Dunmer was at her side.

“Easy, easy,” She cautioned, and Ma’joraa could tell from her voice that this was Karliah. “Don’t get up so quickly. How do you feel?”

The Khajiit’s head was spinning, both from pain and as memories came crashing back. Mercer…oh, Mercer, why?

The she-elf noticed the pain on Ma’joraa’s face and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can see that you loved him,” She said sadly, “I’m sorry.”

 _What happened?_ The Khajiit signed frantically, her breathing erratic and threatening to break into a full-blown panic attack.

“Calm, calm,” Karliah soothed, her hand on Ma’joraa’s shoulder glowing faintly with magic. “I shot you with a special poisoned arrow. It slowed your heart and kept you from bleeding out. As for Mercer…I had to let him go. I’m sorry—I know too well how you heartbroken must be feeling right now.”

The spell helped to soothe the Dragonborn’s racing heart, but a thousand questions still flooded her mind. Mercer had betrayed her, that much was certain, but why? How could he?

“I know this must be confusing for you,” Karliah said, “But I need you to be strong until we can bring Mercer to the guild to pay for what he’s done. Can you do that for me?”

Ma’joraa nodded weakly. She didn’t know what else she could do.

“Leading Mercer here wasn’t simply for irony’s sake,” The Dunmer went on. “I recovered a journal from Gallus’ remains, and I suspect the information we need is inside. Problem is, it’s written in a language I’ve never seen before. I need you to take this journal to one of Gallus’ friends in Winterhold, a man named Enthir. He’ll know what to do. We need to get some hard answers to show to the guild.”

_Aren’t you coming with me?_

Karliah shook her head sadly. “There are preparations to make, and Gallus’ remains to lay to rest. I’ll join you as soon as I can. Do you know any healing magic?”

In response, golden light webbed between the Khajiit’s fingers as she pressed them to her wound. The place tingled as flesh slowly knit together again, but it would need constant attention.

“Good,” The Dunmer said, before clasping Ma’joraa’s shoulder. “Again, I’m sorry about you and Mercer. I went through much the same thing when he murdered Gallus. The only thing we can do now is bring him to justice.”

* * *

 

The trip to Winterhold was a blur—Ma’joraa scarcely remembered meeting Enthir, or the paper he had scribbled on containing the name of a scholar she had to find in Markarth. All she could feel was hurt inside, hurt and betrayal and despair. Mercer, how could he have tried to kill her? Everything they had been through together…was that all a lie?

She didn’t register the cold or her aching feet or the throb from her still-healing wound, nor did she respond to the voice that greeted her.

 _“Drem yol lok,_ Dovahkiin.” Paarthurnax was perched atop his crumbling word wall as per usual, gazing out across Tamriel. Ma’joraa quickened her pace past him, knowing he would sense that something was wrong. She halted at the edge of the Throat of the World, staring down the cliff. The drop was at least two hundred feet to the snow-covered slopes below—there was no way she’d survive.

“Dovahkiin?” The dragon slithered from his perch, his claws crunching in the snow as he eyed her suspiciously. “What are you—”

She couldn’t let him stop her—there was no other way to end this agony.

_“Dovahkiin!”_

The cold air whipped past her face, snow stinging her cheeks as she plummeted like a stone. The ground rushed up towards her, and she waited for the impact, and the end it would bring to her anguish.

But it never came.

Jaws closed around Ma’joraa’s waist like a steel trap. Paarthurnax grunted, his claws scrabbling the stone cliff face as he struggled to turn aside his headfirst plunge. He succeeded, slamming broadside into the slope and sending a small avalanche before him, the impact rattling the Khajiit’s teeth. The dragon righted himself and clamored back up the cliff face, Ma’joraa’s limp form gripped in his jaws. He reached the top and unceremoniously spat her out in the curve of his word wall.

 _“Joor mey!”_ He snarled, angrier than the Khajiit had ever seen him, and for a heartbeat she thought he actually meant to kill her. She struggled upright, readying her battle-axe. He couldn’t stop her—she would end her pain, be it with his help or by herself.

 _“Zun,”_ Paarthurnax churned snow as he leaped back, dodging her first swing. _“Hal…Viik!”_

The shockwave from the shout tore the weapon from the Khajiit’s grasp and sent it skidding into the snow, well out of reach.

“What madness has taken you, Dovahkiin?” Paarthurnax demanded as Ma’joraa came at him with her bare hands. Her claws scratched harmlessly over his scaled snout, but she continued regardless.

 _“Faaz nah!”_ The Khajiit screamed in fury, _“Faaz nah! Zu’u laan dir!” Damn you! I want to die!_

The dragon saw she wasn’t going to be reasoned with. He blocked her as she tried to dart past him and allowed his _Thu’um_ to surge forth again.

_“Gaan…Lah Haas!”_

Ma’joraa staggered, dropping to one knee as the shout sucked the energy from her. Paarthurnax knocked the Khajiit flat on her back, trapping her there with one massive wing. She struggled feebly for several moments, but finally relented and fell limply under the dragon’s dewclaw.

“Now,” Paarthurnax said, his voice softer, “What is the meaning of this madness?”

Ma’joraa stared at the gray sky above her. She didn’t want to say, as though keeping silent would undo all that had happened. But she looked into the concerned blue eyes of the _dovah_ and knew there was no use in keeping it from him.

 _“Krein dii rii gruth,”_ She said, her voice cracking as tears threatened to spill forth. _The one I love betrayed me._

Speaking the truth that she had denied until now seemed to burst some dam within her, and she could not stop the sobs from coming. Paarthurnax removed his claw from her heaving chest, allowing her to curl onto her side as all her hurt and betrayal spilled forth in wave after wave of tears and gut-wrenching sobs.

Paarthurnax gazed sadly down upon his blood-sister. A _dovah’s_ soul in mortal flesh, she was not detached from mortality like her scaled kin, and thus was plagued by all the troubles of mortal life. The dragons did not know the mortal concepts of mating and child-bearing, but Paarthurnax thought that this must be what caring for a child felt like.

After what seemed an eternity, the Khajiit’s grief subsided to the occasional hiccup. She yawned involuntarily, exhaustion catching up to her. Paarthurnax curled his long body into the word wall, completing the semicircle formed by it and sheltering Ma’joraa from the wind and snow.

“Sleep, Dovahkiin,” He rumbled softly, “Escape your sorrow for a time. When you wake, all shall not be well, but time flows ever on. _Drem.”_

The Dragonborn did not resist this time. The dragon’s breath whooshed over her like a furnace, drying the last few tears that slipped from her half-closed eyes and warming her tired body. She allowed the blanket of sleep to cover her, washing away her grief and holding her in its warm embrace.

* * *

 

Ma’joraa slept for the rest of that day and through the night, waking late the next morning. Paarthurnax remained by her side all the while, shielding her fragile body from the chill of the Throat of the World.

 _“Paaz shul,”_ The dragon rumbled as she stirred. “Feeling better, Dovahkiin?”

 _“…Lok gram,”_ Ma’joraa rasped miserably, curling in on herself as memories came crashing back. _My skies are clouded._

“I know, _briinahi,”_ Paarthurnax sympathized, “But you cannot give in. This betrayal hurts, yes, but _tiid bo amativ_ —time flows on. You must live to face the World-Eater.”

The dragon saw she wasn’t listening. He moved his great head in front of her, fixing her with one blue eye.

“There remains at least one who would be sad if you took your life,” He said gently, “True he is but an old _dovah,_ but losing you would cloud his skies forever.”

Ma’joraa looked up at Paarthurnax. His eyes were ancient and full of knowledge, with millennia of betrayal and hurt of his own. He knew what she was feeling all too well, and yet he survived.

 _“Kogaan, zeymahi,”_ She whispered hoarsely, reaching over to place a hand on his snout. _“Zu’u fen bo amativ.” Thank you, my brother. I will go forward._

“I am glad of that, Dovahkiin. I will not pry into your affairs, but I shall remind you of this: whatever you do next, should you stretch your neck to your betrayer, remember that revenge is not the Way of the Voice. _Su’um ahrk morah.”_

 _“Nii fen ni kos nahkriin,”_ Ma’joraa said, heaving herself shakily to her feet, _“Nunon ronit vahzah.” It will not be revenge, but justice._

“Your ideals are clear,” Paarthurnax nodded in approval, “but exercise caution even so. Mortal emotions and impulses are fickle things.”

The Khajiit retrieved her battle-axe from where it still lay in the snow. Paarthurnax returned to his perch atop his word wall, lowering his snout to allow Ma’joraa to wrap her arms around it in a hug.

 _“Lok, Thu’um, Paar-thur-nax!”_ She called as she headed for the trailhead, waving farewell at the dragon.

 _“Lok, Thu’um,_ Dovahkiin,” Paarthurnax replied, “May Akatosh light your path.”

Though grief still ripped at her heart, Ma’joraa’s head felt much clearer, and she felt she could focus on the mission: to bring Mercer to justice. She pulled the journal of Gallus from her pouch and was instantly reminded of what she needed to do when she saw the writing. What kind of pretentious asshole writes his journal entirely in _Falmer?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the dovahzul has no word for 'love,' I've had to improvise. The phrase 'Krein dii rii' translates to 'Magnus (of) my spirit,' or 'Sun (of) my soul." Since a fair amount of the dovahzul I use doesn't translate directly, feel free to plug it into Thuum.org's translator if you're interested in seeing a more literal version, or for the things I don't provide translations for.
> 
> The chapter title translates to 'Breath and Focus'.


	7. Mindok los Suleykh

Brynjolf jerked as he heard the creak of the Flagon door, but he had given up on looking. For the past two days he had jumped at every arrival in the guild headquarters, only to be disappointed when it turned out to be Sapphire or Maul or anyone except the one he was hoping for.

“Fill ‘er up Vek,” He slurred, sliding his empty flagon down the counter to where Vekel gave him a disapproving look.

“Look Bryn, I know you’re upset about the Khajiit, we all are. But ever since Mercer got back you’ve done nothing but drink, pass out for a few hours, then drink some more. I’m not one to judge a brother’s alcohol habits, but I’m pretty sure yours stopped being healthy a long time ago.”

“I said, _fill ‘er up.”_

“Fine,” Vekel grumbled, uncorking another bottle, “It’s your funera—”

He broke off, staring past the Nord at something behind him, not even noticing when the ale he was pouring overflowed onto the counter. Brynjolf twisted around, trying to focus his alcohol-muddled vision. What he saw must have been a hallucination—he could have sworn Ma’joraa leaned against the doorframe, a healing spell clamped to her side.

Brynjolf slid from his barstool, nearly falling before bracing himself on the counter. He turned to Delvin and pointed at the figure in the doorway.

“You…you see her too, right lad?”

“Aye,” Delvin confirmed with a grin, lifting his flagon in a toast. “Damned if I don’t!”

Ma’joraa approached, feeling the gazes of all the Flagon’s occupants upon her, but she was only focused on the fiery-haired, green-eyed Nord, and the blue amulet of Talos he wore around his neck.

“Lass!” Brynjolf exclaimed, as though just realizing she wasn’t an alcohol-induced vision. He lurched forward, stumbling against two tables before impacting the Khajiit in what was intended to be a hug, but his drunken enthusiasm overbalanced her and sent them both toppling in a heap on the floor.

“Careful there, twinkletoes,” Delvin laughed, “Don’t want to smother the kid when she’s already back from the dead.”

The Nord wasn’t listening—he peppered Ma’joraa’s face with sloppy kisses, squeezing the breath from her in an embrace that rivaled that of Ulfric Stormcloak. The Khajiit couldn’t suppress her laughter, overjoyed to see him safe, not even caring that he reeked of booze.

“I—we thought you were dead!” Brynjolf said, managing to disentangle himself from her and push himself into a sitting position. “Oh, Mercer is going to be overjoyed to see you when he gets back.”

Hearing her betrayer’s name reminded Ma’joraa of the mission, and her heart sank.

 _Brynjolf, there’s something you need to know,_ she signed. _Something everyone here needs to know._

“What’s that then?”

Instead of answering, the Khajiit turned and called through the Flagon door, _“Sadontafiir!”_

Delvin leaped upright, drawing his dagger as Karliah stepped into the tavern. The other occupants followed suit.

“You’ve got some nerve coming back here Karliah,” Mallory growled. Brynjolf turned to Ma’joraa with a frown as he struggled to his feet.

“Lass? What’s this all about?”

“It’s about Mercer,” The dark elf said flatly, pulling Gallus’ translated journal from her satchel. “I’m sorry, but he’s not who you think he is. He never was.”

She tossed the journal onto a table, standing back as the guild clustered around it. Delvin opened the book and read several passages aloud, detailing Gallus’ discovery and subsequent investigation of Mercer’s betrayal, with the last entry being the former guildmaster’s apprehensions on meeting Frey at Snow Veil Sanctum.

“Mercer’s been stealing from the guild for years, right under your noses,” Karliah told them. Mallory flung the book down and pointed his dagger at the Dunmer.

“How can we trust anything you say?” He snarled, “It’s the word of our guildmaster, a man who’s been with us for over twenty years, versus yours, the one who conveniently disappeared right after Gallus died. You have nothing to back up your claims besides a journal that could easily be fake.”

 _Actually, I’ve got some evidence in support of her,_ Ma’joraa signed, but no one was paying attention. Karliah stepped back as daggers were drawn around her, the tension in the room straining to the breaking point.

_“Koraav dii rotte!”_

All activity ceased as the _dovahzul_ echoed through the Flagon. Now that she had the guild’s attention, Ma’joraa hitched up her cuirass to reveal Frey’s stab wound, which was starting to turn into an ugly scar.

“Did…did…” Brynjolf faltered as he touched the place, unwilling to speak what he knew was the truth.

 _Mercer did this to me,_ Ma’joraa signed, replacing the leather over the wound. _If not for Karliah…I’d be dead._

“This is all well and good,” Vex spoke up after several moments of tense silence, “But it sounds like the only way to find out if what the elf and the cat says is true is to open the vault.”

“Now wait just a blessed moment,” Delvin began, but Brynjolf interrupted him.

“She’s right.” The Nord braced himself on the table as he tried to shake the alcohol from his system, but with little success. “Delvin, Vex, let’s go. Karliah, Ma’joraa, you come too. The rest of you get back to work.”

The guild grumbled, but reluctantly dispersed as the little group headed for the cistern. Brynjolf gripped Ma’joraa’s arm for support, but also, the Khajiit thought, to remind himself that she was there.

“How could Mercer open a lock that needs two keys?” Delvin muttered as they approached the massive metal vault doors.

“That vault has the best puzzle locks money can buy,” Vex added. “They can’t be picked.”

“He didn’t need to pick the lock,” Karliah stated flatly. Vex glared at the other woman as Delvin inserted the first key into the mechanism. Brynjolf followed suit with only a minor amount of fumbling, and the heavy doors groaned open.

“By the Eight,” The Nord breathed in shock, “It’s empty! Everything’s gone!”

Ma’joraa stood on her toes to peer curiously over his shoulder. The large room was full of stout wooden chests, all of which hung open and empty.

“That son of a bitch,” Vex growled as she checked several of the bare chests, “I swear by all the gods, when I get my hands on that bastard—"

“Hold on a moment,” Brynjolf interrupted, holding his head as he struggled to think clearly. “Let’s not lose our cool. We need to calm down and focus.”

Delvin nodded in agreement. “He’s right Vex. This isn’t helping right now.”

Vex still looked furious, but she sheathed her dagger. “Fine. We’ll do it your way for now.”

“Good,” Brynjolf said. “Now, I need you and Delvin to watch the Flagon. If you see Mercer, let me know.”

The two obeyed, but not without a final suspicious glance as they passed Karliah, who waited outside the vault.

“Alright lass,” The Nord swayed slightly as he spoke, steadying himself on the wall. “I need you to tell me everything you learned from Karliah.”

The Dragonborn did so, recounting how Gallus, Karliah and Mercer were members of the fabled Nightingales, Mercer’s killing of the former guildmaster, and the Dunmer’s purchase of Honningbrew and Goldenglow in an attempt to get Frey deposed by an irate Maven Black-Briar.

“Anything else?” Brynjolf asked once she was through. Ma’joraa shook her head. He was taking all this surprisingly well she thought, but it was likely the alcohol clouding his mind. He probably wouldn’t process much of what had just happened until well after a killer hangover.

“Then I’ve got an important task for you,” The Nord told her. “I need you to break into Mercer’s house. It’s a mansion here in Riften that he hardly ever stays in—just hires a few lackeys to keep the place up. Get in there and see if you can find some hint as to what his next move will be. We’ve got to pursue him as soon as possible.”

 _Understood,_ Ma’joraa signed. _While I do that, you’re going to sleep._

“Fair enough.” The ginger-haired man managed a crooked grin as he allowed the Khajiit to help him out of the vault and towards an unoccupied bed. “Make sure you come back this time—you still owe me a rematch. Back from the dead or not, I fully intend on kicking your ass.”

 _Challenge accepted,_ Ma’joraa signed, smiling as the Nord toppled into bed. Within moments, he was snoring.

* * *

 

Breaking into Mercer’s home proved easier than the Dragonborn was expecting. One hired guard patrolled the back garden, and all the lower doors were barred, but the Khajiit climbed onto a nearby roof and leaped silently onto the balcony of an upper story window. As she had expected, it was unlocked, allowing Ma’joraa to slip into the house like a wraith on the wind.

The interior was clearly unlived in, tidy but with a thin film of dust over everything. As she passed through the bedroom, Ma’joraa felt a twinge of sadness. She hadn’t given much thought to a future with Mercer beyond the guild, but she found herself wishing her first visit to his home wasn’t such a somber, intrusive affair.

The sound of voices coming from downstairs was a welcome distraction from her melancholy. The Dragonborn unsheathed her dagger and set to work.

Ma’joraa finally found what she was looking for in the basement of the manor. In what was clearly Mercer’s office, a yellowed map lay atop a desk, right next to a copy of _The Lusty Argonian Maid._ The Khajiit flattened her ears in distaste—really, Mercer?—but moved it aside it to study the parchment.

Judging by the name _Irkngthand_ scribbled at the top, the map was almost certainly of a Dwemer ruin of some sort. Ma’joraa moved down the page, her interest growing as she read of a detailed scheme to steal a set of artifacts called the Eyes of the Falmer, which were apparently priceless twin jewels that served as the eyes of a great statue, a visage of the Snow Elves before they were corrupted by centuries of underground slavery. The Dragonborn pocketed the map and headed deeper into the basement. The office contained several valuables the guild could make use of, but with Mercer still alive, Ma’joraa couldn’t make herself take them. Perhaps some other time.

The Khajiit dropped through a trapdoor, and to her surprise, found herself in the deepest section of the Ratway beneath Riften. It made sense, she supposed, for Mercer’s house to have a secret exit into the guild’s domain for easy access.

“Good, you’re back,” Karliah said as Ma’joraa found her in the shadows of the Ragged Flagon. “Not everyone here has accepted that I was never against them, so I’ve kept my guard up. What did you find?”

The Dragonborn showed her the map. _Looks like quite the elaborate scheme,_ she signed.

“Gallus’ greatest plot,” The she-elf murmured fondly as she studied the plans. “The Eyes of the Falmer would have made us even more respected than the Gray Fox himself. Gallus spent months on these plans, and more than one good thief was lost to the Falmer to get the information needed.”

 _Sounds like a dangerous mission,_ Ma’joraa remarked. _And Mercer’s going to tackle it alone? Isn’t that a death wish?_

“Not for him,” Karliah said grimly, “Remember, he’s—was—a Nightingale. The shadows are like a second home to him. Those Eyes are worth enough for several lifetimes each. If he gets his hands on them, he can flee Skyrim for good and be set for life, and we’d never have a chance of finding him.”

 _So how do we stop him?_ The Khajiit asked, but the Dunmer shook her head.

“Once Brynjolf’s awake, I want the two of you to meet me at the standing stone south of town. I’ll explain everything then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Koraav dii rotte = 'See my words'
> 
> The chapter title translates to 'Knowledge is Power,' or literally '(To) Know is Power'


	8. Miiraad wah Krongrah

_“Paaz shul, Sahqobron.”_

Brynjolf sat up with a groan, holding his throbbing head with one hand and accepting Ma’joraa’s offered cup of water with the other.

 _How do you feel?_ The Khajiit signed.

“Like my head is packed with sand,” The Nord mumbled, sipping gratefully from the water. “I remember…the vault being empty, and…oh gods, Mercer…”

Ma’joraa sat beside him and patted his back in comfort. _I know this must be awful for you, but we’ve got to stop him. Karliah wants us to meet her at the standing stone outside town as soon as possible._

“Why’s that?”

The Khajiit shrugged. _I don’t know, but she said she’d explain everything there._

“She’d better.” Brynjolf rubbed his temples before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and…I think this belongs to you.” The Nord unclasped the blue amulet of Talos from his neck and handed it to Ma’joraa. “Mercer gave it to me when he came back without you.”

 _Thank you for keeping it safe,_ Ma’joraa signed gratefully, feeling the power of Tiber Septim strengthening her Thu’um once more as she donned the necklace. _We’ll need all the help we can get if we’re going to kill…_

Her signs slowed to a stop, hands falling to her lap as the dismal reality sank in. At the end of all this, Mercer would have to die. There was no way around it.

“I know lass,” Brynjolf sympathized, “I don’t want to do it either. I’ve known Mercer for years, and I’m still having trouble processing that he never cared about the guild at all beyond using it to further his own interests. But we’ve got to take him out if we want justice for Gallus and the guild.”

Ma’joraa gave a small sigh, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill forth, but just signed, _you go on ahead and meet Karliah. I’ve got an errand to run at Honorhall first._

The Nord raised an eyebrow at this unusual task, but he didn’t ask questions. “Alright. Don’t take too long though—every second counts when it comes to Mercer.”

* * *

 

“I see you’ve been warming up. That had better not be guild-related.”

Ma’joraa wiped the bloodstains from her dagger on the grass as she met Karliah and Brynjolf by the standing stone. _Just a favor for an acquaintance,_ she signed. _Nobody even saw me do it._

The Nord relaxed then, before turning to Karliah. “Alright lass, you’ve got us here, so now what?”

The Dunmer led them past the standing stone to a seemingly innocuous gap between two boulders at the base of a cliff. “Now, I’ll tell you how Mercer was able to get into the vault and show you what we need to stop him.”

To the surprise of both Nord and Khajiit, the gap actually led into a cave, though it was so well-hidden that the casual passerby would not even notice it.

“As you know, Mercer, Gallus and I were Nightingales, sworn servants of the Daedric Prince Nocturnal.” Karliah explained, summoning an enchanted flame to light the way as she led them into the damp passage. “We protect the gate from her world to ours, both in life and in death. The gate between the worlds is kept open by an object called the Skeleton Key, which Mercer stole. The Skeleton Key can open any physical lock, and even some metaphysical ones.”

“That’s how he was able to open the vault,” Brynjolf guessed.

“Right.” Karliah nodded grimly. “With the Skeleton Key gone, Nocturnal was naturally displeased with us. Normally, thieves hold her blessing, her luck, if you will. But with the door to her world now shut, the Thieves’ Guild—here in Skyrim, yes, but likely all over Tamriel as well—has fallen on harder and harder times. We need to get the Key back into its place and restore the gateway, as well as Nocturnal’s blessing if the guild has any hope of surviving.”

The passage opened up into a large cavern, seemingly a living space, but for no more than a few judging by the sparse furniture. Karliah led Brynjolf and Ma’joraa to three pedestals, upon two of which sat twin sets of ebony-black armor, identical to that worn by Karliah.

“Mercer is no longer a Nightingale by title, but he still holds the skill of one,” The Dunmer reminded them. “So to get the advantage, the two of you must become Nightingales as well.”

“Now hold on just a minute lass,” Brynjolf protested, “I didn’t agree to join an obscure religion dedicated to a damn Daedra—”

“It’s not a religion,” Karliah cut him off flatly, “And even if it was, as a thief you’ve been relying on Nocturnal’s blessing your entire career, whether you realized it or not. This is the only way we’re going to have a shot at defeating Mercer. Both of you get that armor on, and we’ll be ready to take the oath.”

Ma’joraa found a quiet alcove to change, and as she did, Karliah approached her.

“I know you loved Mercer,” The Dunmer said quietly, “And perhaps you still do. I make no promises, but if you’d like, when we find him I can be the one to take him out. Any qualms I once had on the matter have long since vanished.”

The Khajiit nodded gratefully, feeling some of the weight leaving her shoulders as she pulled on the black leather boots.

“But if I fail,” Karliah cautioned, “If Brynjolf fails, if it comes down to just you and Mercer, you have to swear to me that you’ll be able to do what needs to be done or die trying.”

Ma’joraa thought about all the atrocities Mercer had committed, but also of how he had kept her from the Windhelm jails, how tenderly he had spoken to her by the campfire, how gentle his touch had been. How could she repay his kindness by killing him?

But those tender moments were all lies, she reminded herself bitterly. He didn’t care for her; he never had. Her heart ached even more than the wound in her side, but she forced the pain down. She was Dovahkiin. She could do this.

The Khajiit straightened, placing a fist to her chest. _“Zu’u vaat naal dii sossedov,”_ She said aloud. _I swear by my dragonblood._

The Dunmer nodded in approval. She could not understand the dragon language, but the Khajiit’s tone conveyed her point just as well. “Good. Now, we’re going to meet Nocturnal.”

The meeting with the Daedric Prince was a tense, formal affair, but she accepted Brynjolf and Ma’joraa as her new Nightingales, restoring the trinity.

“Those Daedra never fail to make me uneasy,” Brynjolf muttered as they left, “Like they see us as interesting experiments to manipulate or break.”

“It comes with the territory I’m afraid,” Karliah replied. “Now to Irkngthand, for Gallus and the guild.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly exposition and in-game text, probably the most boring I've had to write so far. Next chapter though, I've had fun with, so hopefully it will be more interesting.
> 
> Paaz Shul, Sahqobron = 'Fair Day, Red Nord'/'Good Morning, Brynjolf'  
> The chapter title translates to 'Path to Victory'


	9. Lok, Thu'um

Twilight shadows stretched long as the trio stepped into the ancient Dwemer ruin. Clearly, Mercer had already been there—a group of bandits that had been camping in the entrance now lay slaughtered, the remnants of their fire scattered across the stone floor.

“Come on,” Karliah urged, heading deeper into the ruins, “Keep on your guard. We might be able to sneak past the Falmer, but I’ve no doubt Mercer has primed every trap he can find to try and stop us.”

As the trio crept deeper, Ma’joraa saw the Dunmer wasn’t kidding. A crossbow bolt would have pinned Brynjolf to the wall had he not ducked with lightning speed, and all three Nightingales got their cloaks singed when a fallen Dwarven mechanism sparked, igniting the pool of oil beneath it.

In addition to the traps, there were the Falmer. The blind beings shuffled in the dark, their makeshift dwellings lit only by the glow of phosphorescent mushrooms that grew from the walls. The thieves were able to creep past most of the pitiful things, only dispatching a few particularly in-the-way creatures with deadly, silent efficiency.

At long last, they stood before great double doors at the deepest part of the ruins, pausing to catch their breath while Karliah checked the map.

 _The statue is just through here,_ the Dunmer signed, wary of speaking lest Mercer overhear. _Ma’joraa, Brynjolf, are you ready?_

The Nord’s face was a picture of grim determination. _Ready as I’ll ever be,_ he replied.

Ma’joraa clasped her amulet of Talos, steeling her nerves and offering a swift prayer. _I’m ready._

 _For Gallus,_ Karliah signed, and together the three slipped through the door and into the grand cavern.

For a moment, Ma’joraa could only sit in awe at the majesty of the statue. A great bronze Snow Elf sat cross-legged, holding a book upon its lap with its left hand and bearing aloft a lit torch with its right. A stairway littered with several Falmer corpses led up the visage’s left arm to its stern, regal face, the wide collar of its robes forming a sort of platform to stand on.

And there, one boot braced against the statue’s chin, was Mercer Frey. He was using his sword to pry the second eye from its socket, his back turned to the Nightingales.

 _Alright, I don’t think he’s seen us yet,_ Karliah signed as the gem thudded to the platform beside Mercer. _Brynjolf, guard the door. Ma’joraa, you help me climb down that ledge and—_

“Karliah, when will you learn you can’t get the jump on me?”

The trio froze at the sarcastic drawl that echoed through the cavern. Mercer Frey leaned on his blade, eyeing the intruders with disdain. His gaze swept over Karliah and Brynjolf contemptuously, before settling on Ma’joraa.

“Well, you just refuse to realize when you’re beaten, don’t you rookie?” He remarked. “When Brynjolf first brought you before me, I could feel a sudden shift in the wind. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that things would end with one of us on the end of a blade.”

 _Give us the Key, Mercer,_ Ma’joraa signed, _and perhaps Nocturnal and the guild will be merciful._

“Hah!” Frey barked, “What’s Karliah been filling your head with? Tales of thieves with honor? Oaths rife with falsehoods and broken promises? Nocturnal doesn’t care about you, the Key, or anything having to do with the guild.”

 _Maybe not,_ the Khajiit admitted, _but at least we still have our honor._

“By the gods, you’re even more naïve than I thought,” the Breton sneered. “It’s clear you’ll never see the Skeleton Key for its true purpose—an instrument of limitless wealth. Instead, you’ve chosen to fall over your own foolish code!”

Ma’joraa flattened her ears, baring her teeth in a challenge. _If anyone falls, it will be you._

“Then the die is cast,” Mercer declared, readying his weapon. “Karliah, I’ll deal with you after I’ve rid myself of this rookie here. In the meantime, perhaps you and Brynjolf should get better acquainted.”

To Ma’joraa’s left, Brynjolf stiffened. He drew his sword, turning toward the dark elf. “What—what’s happening to me? I’m not doing this, I swear!”

“Brynjolf, he’s using his Nightingale abilities to control you!” Karliah parried the Nord’s blade, leaping nimbly back out of range before glancing at the Khajiit. “I’ve got this! You get Mer— _watch out!”_

So focused was she on her companions that the Dragonborn failed to notice Mercer swiftly descending from the statue. Ma’joraa flung herself sideways, avoiding a thrust that would have impaled her. Unhooking her battle-axe, she blocked the Breton’s next slash with the hilt, though he struck with enough force to send shockwaves through her arms. The Khajiit met his next blow, and sparks flew as the two weapons ground against one another before she shoved him backwards.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Mercer taunted as the two circled one another, each looking for an opening.

 _“Kren sosaal!”_ Ma’joraa snarled. _Break and bleed!_

The Breton just smirked at her defiance. The Khajiit glimpsed illusion magic swirling between the fingers of his free hand before the light bent around him and he vanished from sight. “Let me show you the true power a Nightingale can wield.”

Ma’joraa looked about wildly, but there was nothing she could use for cover to keep Mercer from blindsiding her. Karliah was still fending off Brynjolf, who was trying desperately to telegraph his attacks to make it easier for the Dunmer to avoid.

 _“Laas,”_ The Khajiit whispered, _“Yah Ni—"_

Her _Thu’um_ was choked by a scream as a bolt of searing agony lanced through her midriff. Ma’joraa looked down at the blade that protruded from her side, renewing and worsening the previous wound as it was twisted cruelly.

“All too predictable, rookie,” Mercer hissed in her ear. He wrenched his blade free, leaving the Khajiit to crumple to her knees. The Breton readied his weapon for the killing blow.

_“Wuld!”_

At the choking call of the _Thu’um,_ the wind came to Ma’joraa’s aid, shoving her forward and sending her sprawling onto the stairs. Mercer’s blade struck the stone beneath where she had been.

“I see you have some tricks of your own,” Frey remarked, “Perhaps I underestimated you.”

He kicked aside her battle-axe, which had fallen from her hands, leaving Ma’joraa with only her dagger to defend herself with. The Breton easily drove the severely-wounded Dragonborn backward up the stairs with blow after blow that she could only just manage to parry. He was playing with her now.

Suddenly the Khajiit’s back hit the face of the statue. They were at the top. She was cornered. There was nowhere else to run.

Mercer approached slowly, like a panther stalking its prey. “Like I said before,” He drawled, “It really is a pity. You have the potential to be one of the best thieves in all Tamriel.”

Ma’joraa pointed her dagger at him while her free hand clasped a healing spell to her side. She trembled from pain and exhaustion, her eyes wild and desperate, but also full of heartache.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me you know,” Mercer said quietly, lowering his weapon slightly as he closed the distance between them. “The way your eyes change, as though you don’t know what to do with the feelings I give you.”

His hand reached forth to cup her cheek, and Ma’joraa’s ragged breath caught in her throat as healing magic webbed between his fingers.

“Come with me,” He urged, his voice velvety soft. “With the Key and your voice, we can be the greatest pair of thieves Tamriel has ever seen. We can be together, isn’t that what you wanted?”

The Khajiit was frozen in shock. The rational part of her screamed to drive her dagger into his throat, but to her own horror, another, more insistent part was tempted by his offer. He was so close, so warm, his touch so gentle…

From below, a cry rang out. Ma’joraa looked past the Breton and saw Karliah clutching at her sword arm, her weapon clattering to the floor. Brynjolf came at her relentlessly, his blade stained with her blood, and the Dunmer rolled desperately out of the way.

“Ma’joraa,” Mercer’s soft timbre brought her attention back to him, his calloused thumb tracing feather-light along the outline of her cheekbone. “What do you say? Can we be together?”

Paralyzed by indecision, a tear escaped the Khajiit’s eye, dampening the fur of her cheek. She looked down again to where Brynjolf stood over Karliah, and realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Down there, that was her family. And Mercer was willing to throw them aside to get what he wanted. Even if she did accept his offer, what would stop him from doing the same to her?

Ma’joraa returned her gaze to the Breton. Her heart felt as though it was being torn in two, tears coursing openly down her stricken face as her lips parted.

_“Fus.”_

For the first time perhaps in his life, genuine, primal terror showed starkly in Mercer’s gaze. He started to lift his weapon, but too late.

_“Ro…DAH!”_

The force of the _Thu’um_ shook the entire cavern. Mercer Frey was blown from the ledge, and Ma’joraa felt a single sob rip forth as he reached out for her. His fall was broken, as was his back, by one of the many boulders that lay strewn across the floor far below. The sound was like that of a dry branch snapping, echoing through the cavern.

Brynjolf stumbled as the spell on him was broken. His blade drove into the floor beside Karliah’s head.

“I’m free,” He realized, “Lass, oh gods, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be,” the Dunmer reassured him, holding her arm as she staggered to her feet. “It’s done. Now we need to get the Skeleton Key and the Eyes and get out of here. I don’t like the way those pipes are leaking.”

Indeed, the shockwave from Ma’joraa’s shout had disturbed the fragile ceiling of the cave. Dust and small pebbles rained upon them, the groans of the Dwemer piping reverberating through the ruins.

Ma’joraa staggered down the stairs, retrieving her battle-axe before kneeling beside Mercer’s lifeless body. A thin trickle of blood escaped from the corner of the Breton’s mouth, sightless eyes staring at nothing.

 _“Krein dii rii,”_ The Dragonborn whispered, before gently pressing her lips to his brow. _“…Lok, Thu’um.”_

Karliah retrieved Mercer’s pack, rummaging through it. “Good, the Eyes and the Key are both here. Now we need to get out of here before—”

The Dunmer’s words were cut off as a massive boulder crashed to the floor nearby, along with a small avalanche of rubble and a torrent of water.

“—before the pipes burst,” She finished grimly. “Brynjolf, how’s that door?”

“No luck lass,” The Nord called, “Something must have fallen on the other side. We’ll have to find another way out.”

Karliah shouldered Mercer’s pack, and together the three retreated up the statue as the cavern began to flood, frigid water swirling deeper and deeper.

“’Find another way out’ begs the question of ‘is there another way out?’” The Dunmer shouted over the roar of the water.

 _“Til!”_ Ma’joraa cried, pointing to the ceiling. _There!_

Above the head of the great statue, a hole had crumbled in the cavern roof, glowing mushrooms and bronze piping leading into the dark of a small passage, perhaps some long-forgotten Dwemer utility tunnel.

“Yes, but how to we get up there?” Karliah asked, eyeing the water that now covered the lap of the statue. Mercer’s lifeless body floated briefly, tugged about by the swirling currents, before it was lost to the depths.

“We wait,” Brynjolf realized. “I hope you lasses know how to swim.”

Watching the water churn ever higher was nerve-wracking, but there was nowhere else to go. Ma’joraa used the time to focus all her remaining energy into knitting together her wound as much as possible.

Finally, even Brynjolf, the tallest of the three, could no longer keep his head above water. The Nightingales swam to the place below where the passage opened, and were finally able to clamor into it, leaving the Great Statue of Irkngthand to drown beneath the ruins. The dripping trio followed the bronze piping upward for what seemed an age. Finally, they rounded a bend and were greeted by the sight of moonlight illuminating the snow and ice of the Pale, a frigid draft sweeping into the cave mouth.

“Gods above, I’ve never been so glad to see snow!” Brynjolf exclaimed. Ma’joraa managed a chuckle, though the effort sent pain lancing through her side.

“Might as well make camp here for the night,” Karliah said, depositing her dripping pack out of reach of the draft. “We could all use the rest. Tomorrow we’ll chart our next plan of action.”

Now that the adrenaline of battle and the fight for survival were starting to fade, Ma’joraa felt the pain returning, both physical and mental. Mercer Frey, the man she had grown to love, was dead.

But she had loved a man who had never existed, the Khajiit reminded herself sadly. The façade she had fallen for was just that—a lie. To Mercer, she, as well as everyone else, were only ever a means to an end.

“Doing alright, lass?”

Ma’joraa allowed Brynjolf to sit her down on a stout Dwemer pipe as Karliah went in search of firewood. _I’ve been better,_ she signed wearily, a few tears still leaving searing tracks down her chilled face.

“Likewise,” The red-haired Nord murmured. “So much has happened these past few days, it’s hard to know which way is up. But we’ll get there eventually.”

At length, Karliah returned and deposited a large armful of assorted sticks and brush before the two. “Most of that is dry enough I think—the bigger fire we can make the better, if we’re going to keep from freezing our asses off in wet clothes.”

The Dunmer started to pull a flint from her pouch, but Ma’joraa stopped her.

 _“Yol,”_ The Khajiit intoned. Rather than cloud in the frigid air, flames flickered through her breath, latching onto the pile of fuel and creating a merry blaze in seconds.

“Never ceases to amaze me,” Brynjolf chuckled, removing his soaking gloves and laying them before the fire to dry. “You two get some rest. I’ll take the first watch.”

The Dunmer and the Khajiit lay across the fire from one another as Brynjolf took up a post at the cave’s mouth.

“Thank you for all your help, Ma’joraa,” Karliah murmured wearily. “We couldn’t have done it without you. Gods, I shudder to imagine what might have happened if Mercer had taken control of Brynjolf and you weren’t there to keep him busy.”

Ma’joraa didn’t even want to consider the possibilities. The pain of her wound had settled to a dull throb as she wrapped her damp cloak about her, the fire’s heat warming her face, and allowed exhaustion to drag her into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title translates to 'Sky (above), Voice (within),' a farewell.


	10. Amativ

“Need any help there, lass?”

Ma’joraa swatted Brynjolf’s hand away and yanked the stubborn buckle loose before signing, _don’t press your luck._

“Hey, I’m a thief. I _excel_ at pressing my luck.”

The Khajiit dumped her cuirass beside the Nord’s, and the two moved to the center of the cistern training room. The guild had settled back into normalcy now that the Skeleton Key was back where it belonged. Nocturnal’s darkness had returned to shroud the guild with her blessing, and they were well on the way to restoring influence throughout Skyrim.

“Don’t expect me to go easy on you this time,” Brynjolf said over his shoulder, “Now that I’ve seen you can be a solid ninety-five pounds of kick-ass, this should be much more—”

Ma’joraa saw her chance and took it. She drove her foot into the back of the Nord’s knee, the joint instinctively buckling and sending him to the floor with a yell of surprise.

_That’s revenge for last time,_ she signed with a smug smile.

“Lass, that was underhanded, dishonorable and ruthless,” Brynjolf growled as he got to his feet. He drew his dagger, emerald eyes darkening as he smiled. “Just like any good thief!”

His blade flashed, and the Khajiit only just managed to counter by driving the back of her hand into his wrist, knocking aside the blow. The Nord’s other fist came around to slam into her ribs however, sending Ma’joraa stumbling back with the breath partially driven from her. The half of her brain that wasn’t focused on regaining lost oxygen saw the next slash coming and reacted, jerking to the side and trapping the outstretched limb in the crook of her elbow. The Khajiit unsheathed the claws of her free hand and swung, but Brynjolf caught her blow as well, and for a heartbeat they were locked together at an impasse.

Ma’joraa was the first to move—she dug her claws into his knuckles and was rewarded by a hiss of pain. She jerked her hand from his grasp, but Brynjolf wasted no time in swinging another punch at her head. Forced to release his arm to duck, the Khajiit dodged two lightning-fast slashes before countering with her own. The Nord’s head whipped to the side as she backhanded him hard across the face, before dropping into a crouch and driving her heel into his gut. He staggered backward into the wall, and Ma’joraa charged forward to slam her knee into his chest with all her weight behind it, driving the wind from him.

_“Hi gahvon?”_ The Khajiit demanded, her claws pricking his throat. Brynjolf gave a crooked grin as he tried to regain his breath.

“If you’re asking whether I surrender, I’m sorry to disappoint,” He replied, before using his size to his advantage and surging forward, sending her stumbling back.

Brynjolf came at her like a charging bull, catching the Khajiit about the midriff and slamming her to the floor, nearly forcing the breath from her. Ma’joraa managed to shield her face with her forearms, blocking and deflecting the Nord’s blows as he straddled her. Unable to squirm free, the Dragonborn instead lifted her knees and drove them into Brynjolf’s lower back. He grunted in surprise as his balance was broken, hands hitting the floor on either side of Ma’joraa’s head. She took the opportunity to seize his arm and hook his leg with her own. Twisting sideways with an enormous effort, the Khajiit was rewarded by an oath from the Nord as he rolled off her. His dagger clattered to the floor and was swiftly kicked away as Ma’joraa leapt upon him. Her claws closed on his throat, and for several seconds the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing.

“Short work,” The Nord smirked. “I see you picked up a few things from our last fight.”

_With you I’ve got to be quick,_ Ma’joraa signed as she stood, panting slightly from exertion. _You could easily flatten me if I’m not careful, so if I want to win I have to be fast and dirty._

“Spoken like a true thief,” Brynjolf chuckled, accepting her offered hand and pulling himself upright. Ma’joraa was secretly relieved at her victory—a few more well-aimed blows from his huge fists and she would have been out.

The Khajiit was just about to don her cuirass when she felt the Nord’s strong arms wrapping around her shoulders. She tensed, but he didn’t try anything, simply pulling her flush against him in an embrace.

“I don’t remember much from when you first came back,” The Nord admitted ruefully, “So I may have said this already, but…I’m glad you’re alright.”

Ma’joraa couldn’t resist a fond smile as she patted his arm. _“Zu’u med,”_ She replied. _Me too._

“Ma’joraa, are you back there?” Karliah’s voice echoed in the corridor, accompanied by her approaching footsteps. Ma’joraa tensed—neither she nor Brynjolf had put on a cuirass yet, and if the dark elf walked in on them like this, it would look awfully suspicious.

“Well isn’t this awkward,” The Nord purred mischievously, apparently thinking the same thing. “Sorry, lass!”

Before she could react, his grip dropped to her midriff, and Ma’joraa’s world turned upside-down.

Karliah entered the room just in time to see Brynjolf falling backward with the Khajiit gripped in his arms, slamming her shoulders-first into the floor and nearly stunning her.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” The Dunmer leaned on the doorframe, unable to resist a smirk at the scene before her.

_“Tahrodiis Sahqobron!”_ Ma’joraa wheezed out as she struggled to pick herself up, _“Dii jot hin slen!” Treacherous Brynjolf, my teeth to your neck!_

The Nord was laughing so hard he could scarcely speak, rolling onto his side to shield himself from a barrage of vengeful swats. “I told you I’d kick your ass, didn’t I?”

_You’re not interrupting, you’re saving me from this unscrupulous bastard,_ the Khajiit signed to Karliah, furious at both being caught off-guard and having it witnessed. _What do you need?_

“There was a courier in the market looking for you,” The Dunmer explained, handing Ma’joraa a neatly-folded letter. “He said someone paid him a hefty sum to get that to you.”

The Dragonborn grabbed the parchment gratefully, a welcome distraction from her embarrassment. Then she opened it and her blood ran cold.

“What’s the matter?” Karliah asked, noticing the shock on Ma’joraa’s face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The Khajiit showed her the letter. A single black handprint occupied the center of the paper, and beneath it, two simple words that instilled terror into their recipient.

_We know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title translates to 'Onward'
> 
> Alright! I hope you all enjoyed my first-ever Elder Scrolls fic! It was an interesting test to see if I knew the world and characters well enough to write about them cohesively. The idea for Ma'joraa to be able to only speak in dragon was a result of me noticing that even though your character speaks through dialogue text, the only audible speech comes from shouts. At first I was going to go full Black Bolt and have her not be able to make any sound at all without causing an Unrelenting Force-like shockwave, but the more I thought about that, the more holes I poked in it for myself, so I scrapped it. I do have several more ideas involving Ma'joraa as you could probably gather, including meeting the Dark Brotherhood and some more expansion on how she came to be able to only speak in dragon, which I may cover in other stories. Anyway, I hope you all had as much fun reading this story as I had writing it! Sky above, Voice within!


End file.
